Concurrence
by rosenritter
Summary: Omegaverse, Mystrade, Johnlock, mpreg, other warnings in chapter notes. Lestrade wants to bond with Mycroft; he just needs to get the approval of the Head Alpha of the Holmes family. Might be a challenge when he finds out who that is. Then there's the matter of a sadistic serial killer who is cruelly picking off Alpha-Omega couples who don't neatly fit into their traditional roles.
1. Chapter 1

**Author notes:** Yep, another Omegaverse from me, based on another prompt from the BBC Sherlock kink meme. However! This is NOT part of my other Omegaverse stories. Hopefully that's pretty apparent since Mycroft is an Alpha in those stories and Lestrade a Beta, whereas here they're an Omega and Alpha respectively. This story will share some elements with that series, but other things can and will be very, very different. That's one of the fun perks of Omegaverse stuff; there's all kinds of variety.

Also, please note that this story is currently being written and that I have a busy job with many responsibilities. I can't promise fast updates, but I do have the plot of this story figured out up through the climax and resolution, so it's all just a matter of getting there. Please bear with me!

So without further ado, I'll shut up and let you get on with the fic. Reviews are immensely appreciated and are a brilliant motivator, so let me know what you think!

* * *

If someone were to ask Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade what finally pushed him over the edge and got him to ask The Question, he would place all the blame on a pair of completely unnecessary reading glasses. This wasn't anywhere near the truth, of course. That's just the kind of dramatic interpretation of events that people like to tell themselves and that others like to hear. In reality, for the past several months The Question had been simmering quietly in the back of his head like a little kernel of popcorn in increasingly hot oil. It was just that the glasses provided that little extra bit of warmth to cause The Question to pop.

Greg stepped out of the bathroom attached to the master bedroom, dressed only in his old dark blue pyjama bottoms. He was rubbing vigorously at his more-salt-than-pepper hair with the coarse towel he kept here. Mycroft's towels tended to feel very soft and fluffy, and Greg found he just couldn't feel clean after drying off with them. Using one was like rubbing a particularly easy-going chinchilla against your nethers, and that just wasn't the type of thought he liked to have right out of the shower. He attributed this to a childhood where cheap, starchy detergents were the norm. He didn't even know fabric softeners existed until he was around twelve years old, and even now he wasn't quite sure how they worked. It could've been fairy magic for all he knew.

Mycroft was already at the headboard of the bed, engaged in the process of creating a mighty throne of soft pillows to lean against as the evening wore down. A small, time-worn book sat atop the sheets on Mycroft's side. The mattress dipped slightly and the covers wrinkled under Greg's weight as he sat on his side of the bed and reached for the book. "What's this you've got?" he asked.

"Merely a little light reading," Mycroft replied as he made final adjustments on his hoard of pillows. He leaned back to examine his work with a critical eye, resting his chin on his right thumb and tapping his index finger against his lower lip in thought.

Greg ran a hand over the smooth, aged black leather binding on the book. Looking at the gold lettering of the title, he did his level best to pronounce it. "_Ill Princey-pay_," he murmured. "Something about a prince?"

Mycroft smirked. "In a matter of speaking, yes."

Flipping through the crisp, yellowed pages with a calloused thumb, Greg's eyes scanned the text .He frowned in confusion at the rows of words. "Is that… Italian?"

"Yes. This was a very influential text from my childhood. As sentimental notions go, nostalgia is far and away the least troublesome. A little bit of it is useful, after all. Powerful. When used effectively it is the lifeblood of tradition as well as one of the most potent ways to control a populace." Mycroft adjusted the bedside lamp for prime lighting conditions and, therefore, optimum reading efficiency. He then eased into the bed and leaned against the pillows. He held out a hand for the book, and Greg obliged the wordless request.

"With more life experience under my belt, I find the book rather cutely naïve, but its ideas had a profound effect on me once upon a time," Mycroft continued. A faint and fleeting faraway expression settled across his features as he ran a careful finger over the book's title. Greg managed to catch it, though an untrained eye would never have seen the slip in that stony exterior. "This must be how people feel when reflecting on the fairy stories of their early childhoods."

"I think I get where you're coming from," Greg said. "My gran used to read _The Little Prince_ to me all the time me when I was a kid. Maybe not as impressive as this other prince thing you've got, but some of it sticks with you always." He scratched at his chin. It was actually somewhat refreshing to hear Mycroft speak like someone who actually had something resembling a childhood. "You first read this in Italian when you were a kid?"

Mycroft laughed. "Heavens, no. I read it in translation until I was about, oh, seven or so. That's when my Italian was strong enough to read the original text."

Greg shook his head and flopped against his pillow. Roughly, he moved a hand to cover his eyes and part of his forehead with an audible 'thwack'. "You bloody impossible Holmeses," he muttered. "Reading in Italian when everyone else is still getting a handle on English."

"And Latin."

"What?"

"The same time I was learning to read Italian, I was learning Latin."

Greg peeked through his fingers to gaze in disbelief at Mycroft. "I thought your second language was French. I remember because you gave me hell for my last name being French despite me only knowing rusty secondary school stuff like how to ask where the toilet is."

"Oh, _that_," Mycroft scoffed. "I don't count that. That's practically a second mother tongue."

Greg groaned and rolled over on his side to face Mycroft, fully intending to rant further about how ludicrous the Holmes family tree was in general and how he and John Watson ought to form a support group for regular people caught in its orbit, but it died in his throat. Instead, he found himself mesmerized by Mycroft's profile as he read, lit by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. The way a small, scarcely noticeable smile quirked at the ends of his lips, usually so stern and mirthless. The set and angle of a pair of reading glasses which Greg knew his lover didn't need, and the glint of gold reflecting from the spectacles' frame in the soft light. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his impeccable and most definitely expensive Egyptian cotton pyjamas. The only sounds the crisp rustle of turned pages and the barely audible in-out-in-out exhalations of Mycroft's breathing; Greg found his own lungs falling in step.

It was that moment, awash as he was in the implausible hominess of the scene, that Greg was hit with the sudden and unstoppable need to be with this man for the rest of his life and for it to be official. And The Question charged forth, tumbling off his tongue like a flood of water from a burst dam.

Though, interestingly enough, it didn't really take on the form of an actual question.

"Let's get bonded," he blurted out.

The only indication that Mycroft even heard Greg's sudden request was a slight hitch in the rhythm of his breathing. "What was that?"

"Let's get bonded," Greg repeated. "Officially, I mean. We've been together almost a year now, and it just hit me that if I don't bond with you as soon as I can, I'm the biggest idiot on this damn planet."

Mycroft sighed and removed his glasses, folding them carefully and placing them on the bedside table. He then turned to get a better look at his lover. "Gregory, I am not saying no, but if this is because you would like to have children with me, I must inform you that at my age the odds of success are rather… limited." Although his face remained impassive, he worried one of the earpieces. "It's of no import to me; long ago I accepted that my rather… gender atypical choices about career and other matters would render me more a custodian and instigator in the propagation of the Holmes line than an active participant. However, I do realize reproduction is a high priority for many people when it comes to bonding."

"No, no, that's not it," Greg said hastily, holding up a placating hand. He took a breath and ran that hand through his hair. "Well, I mean, I'll be honest - I wish I had met you sooner so that could've been more of an option. And I don't think I'd be upset if we _did_ end up with a little surprise. But my youngest from my previous bonding is still in uni and it's been a couple years since my eldest graduated. Won't be long before _they_ start pairing off and getting bonded, as bloody terrifying a thought as that is. It'd be a pretty shocking move to spring a sibling on them now."

There was a moment of silence disturbed only by the rhythmic ticking of the antique table clock on the bedside table. "Your sons are both Alphas, correct?" Mycroft asked.

Greg knew that Mycroft was very much aware of the natures of his sons, but he nodded anyway.

"Then you must be relieved that, as they are not Omegas, you won't have to put up with any potential suitors crawling to you looking to fulfill the Concurrence Act."

Honestly, it was true. Greg had all but forgotten that the Concurrence Act was still in effect, as it simply didn't impact his daily life much anymore. The last time he'd had to worry about it was way back in the mid-80s, when he'd had to pluck up the courage to fulfill his duty to the law when he was seeking to bond with his ex.

The Act was positively ancient by legal standards, dating all the way back to the mid-Victorian era. Many people pointed to it as one of the earliest examples of an Omega rights law, but like many initial, lurching steps forward down the road of progress, it solved one problem by introducing several more. The problem it claimed to address was the widespread issue of Omegas becoming bonded against their will. The Act was widely lauded for aiding those poor souls who had been taken advantage of during their heats and bonded to Alphas they didn't know or couldn't stand. That was the justification, at any rate. In execution, it legalized and enforced the tradition of a family's Head Alpha controlling the bondings of the Omegas in their line with an iron fist. As the legislators crooned about how the new law benefited all of society, they internally sighed in relief at the thought that _this_ ought to put a stop to their Omega sons and daughters making eyes at the lower-class Alpha stablehands in their employ.

That was, more or less, the extent of what Greg knew about the Act. Mostly he was glad to live in an era in which, though the Act was still very much alive and enforced, standards had relaxed a bit. For the past forty years or so, as Omegas slowly began to gain more rights, job opportunities, and legal agency, the old standard of treating them as little more than family commodities was gradually fading away. In many families, as long as the courting Alpha proved that they loved and were a good match for the Omega they were pursuing, the Head Alpha was happy to give their blessing.

That's how it had gone when Greg pursued his first bonding. Only time would tell how easy he'd have it this time, provided Mycroft agreed to his atypical proposal at all.

"I've been lucky, I admit," Greg said. "I had an easy time when I asked permission to bond with my ex, and I don't have any Omega children to protect. I've had rough spots, but none of it's in relation to the Act."

"Very lucky indeed," Mycroft intoned drily. "And though I may have some small level of governmental influence, I am still an Omega with all the social protocol that entails. If we were to bond, you'd need permission from the Head Alpha of my family."

"Well, yeah. Of course. I'd do it in a heartbeat. Even if you somehow had a thousand Alphas in your family, I'd ask every last one, not just the one up top."

Mycroft gave him a speculative look. After what felt like a century of scrutiny, he said, "Then I'm afraid all that luck you've enjoyed up until now has run out."

"What d'you mean by-" Greg took in a sharp little breath when the extremely oblique implication of Mycroft's statement sunk in. Something fluttered in his chest and a tiny grin fought against the fact that he was still leaping to a bit of a conclusion. "Then… Is there a yes buried in there somewhere?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and tilted his chin up, rolling his shoulders slightly. Though the gesture was likely meant to convey primness, like a snooty cat disdainfully stretching and peering up at the two-legged thing responsible for food and waste management, perhaps there was more to it. It did put an awful lot of that pale neck on display, after all. "What you said wasn't even a question, you know. If you want a proper bonding, you have to start by asking it the right way."

The soft sound of smooth shuffling accompanied the ticking of the clock as Greg slid across the silk sheets to press himself up against Mycroft's side, settling his chin on his lover's shoulder. His lips grazed the shell of Mycroft's ear as he whispered, "Mycroft Holmes, would you do me the honour of bonding with me, of allowing me the privilege of becoming your Alpha?"

Mycroft took in a deep breath. "Yes," he said. His voice was slightly husky, though only those closest to him would be able to tell the difference to his tone. "If you can."

"If?" Greg asked, trying not to sound offended.

"The Alpha you would need to speak to in order to request our bonding can be rather… vexatious."

"Ah, I can handle that," Greg said. "I deal with your brother often enough. They can't be any worse than Sherlock. So, who do I need to talk to? Your father?"

As Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, a buzz from Lestrade's mobile phone caught him off guard. He reached for it and answered. "This better be really damn important." His expression turned from frustration to a grim resoluteness as he listened to the voice on the other end. It seemed it really _was_ that damn important. "Right. I understand." His turned to give Mycroft a regretful look; Mycroft gave a single serious nod. Greg returned his attention to the phone and continued, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

He ended the call and sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes and then over his slightly stubbly chin. "Sorry," he grumbled. "Here I was hoping this would be an evening just for us, especially since it kind of turned into an off-the-cuff proposal, and then some maniac goes and kills two people in the most bloody gruesome way."

"Gregory, how many times have we been together only for me to find that I needed to go take care of some small trifle of a governmental matter-"

"'Some small trifle'?!" Greg repeated in disbelief as he slid into his trousers. "You have to have prevented World War 3 at least five times."

"Only three and a half. You are overstating the excitement of my very minor position," Mycroft corrected mildly. "Also, it's very rude to interrupt. What I was trying to convey is that I understand duty. You are unlikely to find a partner who appreciates the importance of it as much as I do."

Greg grinned. "A bit boastful, d'you think?"

"Boastfulness implies exaggeration, and do you _really_ think that's the case here?"

"Nah, I don't," Greg said quietly. "But seriously, thanks for being understanding."

"Again: duty," Mycroft replied.

"Yeah, speaking of that," Greg said. "Do you know why they're calling me in on this? Because they can already tell they're going to need Sherlock on the case. And I 'work with him best', they said."

"Such is the price of being one of Sherlock's handlers," Mycroft replied. "I am quite aware that it is a thankless job."

"No kidding. But he's been…" An idea seemed to spark to life in Greg's eyes, and he turned back to Mycroft. "Actually, y'know, this might be good. When we wrap things up at the crime scene, I can ask Sherlock who I'll need to talk to for permission to bond with you. I find that information out and let Sherlock know I'll be bonding with you. Pretty impressive multi-tasking there, I think."

Mycroft looked as if he had just bitten into the world's most sour lemon. "That is perhaps the most spectacularly terrible idea you've ever had."

"Worse than the time I tried to make us curry from scratch?"

"Infinitely worse, though that is strong competition."

Greg's lips scrunched together and his eyes squinted in a confused and slightly frustrated scowl. "How's that?"

"You're talking about Sherlock, he who has spent the vast majority of his life priding himself in thwarting all of my intentions." Taking on a sarcastic tone, Mycroft added, "Unless we are speaking about a _different_ Sherlock Holmes."

"We practically are, at this point," Greg said. "He's become a lot more reasonable since he bonded with John…"

Mycroft said nothing, only raising an eyebrow. His mouth was pressed into a firm, disbelieving line.

"A bit more reasonable…?"

The other brow rose.

Greg sighed. He shrugged and continued, "About a 50-50 split between tolerable and terrible. But you know that's still a huge improvement! Even when they were deluding themselves that they were just friends, Sherlock's behaviour was a major step up compared to when he was John-less." He frowned slightly. "I know I haven't always trusted him completely. But ages ago, I told John that maybe one day your little brother would be a good man. I'm hoping that day is close."

Mycroft gave him a calculating stare, the kind that always left Greg feeling like all his layers of skin, muscle, flesh, and bone were being peeled away so Mycroft could gaze at his very core. He fidgeted a bit under the scrutinizing gaze, taking the opportunity to button up his shirt.

Finally, Mycroft closed his eyes and gave his head a tired shake. "Then on your head be it," he conceded. "Just be aware that I attempted to warn you about this whole affair if it backfires horrifically." He shrugged. "Though it just now occurs to me that perhaps your scheme may not be quite so terrible. You may have better luck getting permission if I'm not there."

"That protective, your Head Alpha?" Greg asked as he slipped into his shoes. "They get that madly concerned about you as soon as you're in sight?"

"I couldn't _begin_ to describe all the issues involved. There simply aren't enough words in the English language," Mycroft said. "Now make haste, and don't forget to send my little brother my regards."

Greg, now fully dressed, moved back to the bed. Once back at Mycroft's side, he murmured, "Will do." His lips quirked up in a little grin and he placed his hand on the back of Mycroft's neck. He leaned in, pressing their lips together in a quick kiss. With that, he made his way out of the room, giving a little wave as the door closed behind him.

Mycroft sat in silence for a moment, listening. Once he heard a car engine start on the street below, he sighed. "You have absolutely no idea what a mess you're getting yourself into, Gregory Lestrade," he muttered. He picked up his book and continued reading.

Every few pages or so, he would reach up to touch his lips, which still felt warm and faintly tingly from the kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Author Notes:

* * *

**TRIGGER AND SENSITIVITY WARNING:** This chapter contains rather graphic descriptions of a crime scene involving burned corpses. If this makes you squeamish in any way, please exercise caution.

Also, this isn't Brit-picked, and though I've tried to do research there and in other aspects (like for the case), there's still a good chance I've messed something up. If so, I apologize.

* * *

Greg was only at the crime scene long enough to hear a rundown from the officers who were already present and slip into a set of anti-contamination scrubs to get a miserable look at the bodies before he planted himself at the crime scene entrance point to wait for Sherlock. He sighed heavily and winced when he felt a drop of rain hit the top of his head. Luckily, he didn't have to stand there alone in the rain long before a cab pulled up across the street. Greg's heart thudded with nervous energy as he watched Sherlock step out of the cab… alone.

"No John tonight?" Greg asked as Sherlock strode purposefully through the strengthening rain. He was keenly aware that the presence of Sherlock's mate tended to make the rather erratic detective more stable and agreeable, if only because John was never shy about stating his own opinion or forcibly yanking his Alpha back in line. Without John there to smooth over any potential bumps in the conversation, Greg nervously began to have second thoughts about his plan.

His palms tingled with an unpleasant clamminess; he attempted to wipe them against his thighs to get rid of the cold sweat, only to awkwardly realize it was no use with the crime scene gloves and scrubs he was wearing. Even worse, Sherlock noticed the odd movement and raised a disapproving, patronizing eyebrow at the display. Greg quickened his steps slightly; maybe if he stayed a step or two ahead of Sherlock literally, he could do the same metaphorically and also recover some dignity.

"No," Sherlock said, squinting at Greg's nervous mannerisms. He only broke the skeptical look when his eyes caught something on the ground a few paces away. He veered over to investigate, and Greg didn't notice until he turned to ask Sherlock his next question.

Thrown off, Greg cleared his throat and tried to settle into the kind of swagger someone with his level of authority really ought to have as he approached the eccentric detective. Again, the scrubs did not help. It made him look a bit like a powder blue, constipated penguin. "What's this, then?"

Sherlock stood from where he had been stooping, holding a slightly soggy business card. He frowned at the card for a moment before he showed it to Greg. "Are you familiar with this symbol?"

It resembled a four-pointed star with a sideways, angular, and incomplete hourglass at its center. Greg crossed his arms and tilted his head. He could have sworn he'd seen it somewhere, but he couldn't place it for the life of him.

"I think I've seen it before, but can't say I know where. Got an idea what it is?"

"No. I'll set the homeless network on it to see if it's a tag affiliated with any gangs, but I have my doubts." He slipped the card into his pocket. "If it were, why use a very small, well-produced business card when there's a perfectly dilapidated old building right here to cover in graffiti? No, it must be something else."

"D'you think it's related to this case?"

"No idea. Could be incredibly vital for this case, or it may merely be a clue for another time. In any case, what matters is that I've got it," Sherlock replied, moving once again toward the crime scene entrance. Once there, Greg lifted the yellow police tape, and they made their way inside.

Their steps echoed off the walls of the enormous room as they entered. The building was little more than one large storeroom, save for a small room near the entrance. Back when the building had been in use, the room might have seemed mysterious. What could have been hidden away behind its out-of-place steel door? Time had revealed the disappointingly trivial truth. The hinges at the door had rusted away, and the door had fallen to join the thick coat of dust on the ground. The secret room was little more than a toilet for whatever watchman had been on duty, though now it seemed a family of rats had made a cozy home for themselves there.

Being long abandoned, the building had been stripped of whatever it had formerly stored. Now it was empty and cavernous, with the exception of the bustling activities of Scotland Yard at the wall furthest away from Sherlock and Greg. With no electricity to speak of, they'd brought in several lamps to light up the crime scene area. There were occasional bursts of even brighter light as three detective constables photographed the bodies while, several paces away, another constable spoke with someone else. Sherlock couldn't quite see who it was, given the distance and the fact that the constable's body was obscuring the other from view.

Greg let them walk toward the crime scene for a few seconds in silence before he tried his plan out again. He needed to gauge Sherlock's mood. Time to test the waters some more and see if it would be all smooth sailing or if Sherlock would take a bite out of his leg like a great white shark. "So, uh, about John not being here. You two having a tiff?"

Sherlock gave a derisive snort. "Nothing of the sort. He has a persistent illness, and I managed to convince him to sit this one out. Mostly by being careful to not wake him up when I left."

Greg couldn't help but laugh at that, even as he shook his head. "Oh, he's not going to be happy about that."

"Not if I return before he wakes up," Sherlock said. "It's for the best that he isn't here right now."

"Really? You never struck me as the sort to buy into the whole 'protect the Omega's delicate sensibilities' business."

Sherlock gave Greg a glance that could wither fruit from the vine. "Lestrade, I realize it may be a challenge for you, but do try to refrain from being so dim. You've known me long enough to be keenly aware that I am _not_ that sort," Sherlock said. "John may rejoin me in stooping over hideously disfigured and eviscerated corpses when he's less likely to vomit on them. It contaminates the crime scene."

"Well, is he alright?" Greg asked, now genuinely concerned.

"He's fine. Nothing more than an ailment which has plagued billions of humans throughout the entire course of our existence as a species," Sherlock replied, his tone clearly impatient. "It's a temporary condition."

"Ah, good to hear it's nothing serious. Sorry he's caught the flu that's been floating around."

"Your attempts at deductions are quaint, but it might be wise to leave them to the professionals." Before Greg could complain that technically speaking _he_ was one of the professionals while Sherlock was more or less an extremely talented freelancer, Sherlock continued. "If all small-talk pleasantries are aside, I need to hear what you know about the incident which has us here tonight."

"Right," Greg said, nodding. The old idiom might be 'You draw more flies with honey than vinegar', but one of the best ways to win Sherlock over was to ply him with gruesome murder. "The bodies were found two hours ago by a night watchman on patrol at one of the neighboring buildings. He took a break for a cigarette and happened to see smoke coming from over there." He pointed to a large shattered window near the two bodies. "When he came to investigate, he found the bodies and called us."

Sherlock gave a thoughtful hum. Now much closer, he could easily make out the two figures who were talking away from the activity around the corpses. The constable, a young ginger-haired Beta lad who was still in an uphill battle against acne, was indeed talking to someone who was wearing the uniform of a night watchman. The young guard's skin had gone waxy and pale, and he was obviously very shaken by what he had discovered. "So he's the one having a chat with Constable Spotty."

"It's _Spalding_ and he can't help his skin being the way it is," Greg chastised. "But yeah, that's him. We don't think he's anything more than the unlucky bloke who stumbled across this mess."

"Agreed. He hasn't got the posture of a murderer-arsonist. On the other hand, I imagine you'll find several counts of petty larceny on his record. Don't hold that against him, though, as he is obviously trying very hard to be a fine upstanding citizen now. No one his age would willingly guard a terracotta manufacturing warehouse, after all."

"Hold on, I never specified where he worked. How'd you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The dust on his shoes. It's the tell-tale pale pink of terracotta produced from London clay." He scoffed. "What a dull thing to guard all night. The things people do for a relationship."

Greg squinted in confusion. "How do you figure?"

"The ring on his left hand. Isn't that what the Beta minority resorts to when they attempt to bond, as they're incapable of delivering or sustaining bondbites?"

Greg really couldn't believe Sherlock's senses sometimes, even though he knew beyond a doubt that the deductions would prove to be correct if they were checked out. To spot a bit of clay dust and the glint of a small gold band at their distance was stellar.

"Wow," he muttered.

"John is much better at delivering praise at crime scenes than you are," Sherlock said. "Now, the bodies."

They finally came close to the terrible scene. Sherlock waved off the forensic officers, who stepped aside and went about investigating the rest of the building once Greg nodded for them to get on with it. With a small sigh, the Detective Inspector thanked his lucky stars that Anderson wasn't there to raise a fuss.

Sherlock loomed over the corpses. Even from a good distance away, the smell was overpowering. Not the sweetly sickening smell of rot and decay, but the acrid bite of smoke and burned flesh, as if someone had left a cut of pork on a grill for far too long. Sherlock's nose stung as he took in a deep breath; his sense of smell was acute even for an Alpha, and his finely tuned scenting ability had helped in many a case. He scowled. The corpses were too long dead and too badly burned to determine by scent if the victims were Alphas, Omegas, or Betas. Even though the detective could smell the presence of some form of fire accelerant – kerosene, he believed with a 98% certainty – beneath the burn, that was staggeringly easy and certainly wouldn't help identify the bodies any quicker. The sooner a corpse had a name and face put to them, the sooner you had a list of likely perpetrators in the form of 'friends' and family.

And Sherlock could already tell it would be an arduous process getting these bodies identified. If the Yarders had found ID on or near the bodies, Lestrade would have mentioned it. Identifying the bodies by any distinctive clothing, such as uniforms with names or other highly specialized garments, was also out; if the bodies had been clothed before the fire was set, the fabrics had long burned away. To confound matters even more, the soft tissues and fattier parts of a body were always the first to burn away. Not only could Sherlock not tell by scent if the corpses were Alpha, Beta, or Omega, but the crotches and chests of the victims were a stomach-turning mess of burned flesh, making it impossible to determine if they were male or female. The groins were so extensively burned that either the fire had been started there or the lion's share of the accelerant had been put there.

Greg watched as Sherlock prowled around the bodies, his eyes darting wildly as he scoured them for information to file away mentally. Finally, the consulting detective spoke. "Prevailing theories?"

"Murder's most likely, but at this point, we can't really discount anything. The way the bodies are laid out – on their backs with their arms calmly at their sides – mean they probably weren't struggling or trying to stop the fires. So, probably already dead when they were dumped here and set on fire," Greg said. "No sign of any ID and they're too badly burned with sight alone. We'll probably have to go for dental records"

Sherlock, who had continued to pace around the bodies as Greg spoke, stopped abruptly. A little spark of something lit up behind his eyes. "Dental… bites. Bites! _Of course!_"

Greg was glad that the other members of the investigative team weren't close enough to see the manic grin that had appeared on Sherlock's face. The tall detective dropped to his knees by the slightly shorter corpse. "I need to touch the bodies," he said, not even bothering to look up from the body. He lifted his right hand and made an impatient grabbing motion. "Gloves, John."

Greg rolled his eyes. More and more often if Sherlock got caught up in the throes of investigation-related inspiration, everyone who stood by him and acted helpful tended to turn into John Watson in his head. Maybe it simplified things so he could focus more fully on the task at hand. Greg couldn't be bothered to care about the particulars of the quirk, as long as Sherlock didn't try snogging him like he occasionally did with John while caught up in the adrenaline rush of case inspiration.

He reached into the pocket of his forensic suit and handed Sherlock a spare pair of latex gloves.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. Greg raised an eyebrow. John must have really stepped up his game recently when it came to training manners into Sherlock.

Sherlock removed his black gloves and snapped on the latex ones Greg had provided. He moved the head of the shorter corpse right and left, and then carefully lifted the head. He leaned in closer and peered at the juncture where the neck met the back of the left shoulder. With his free hand, Sherlock first touched the skin at that juncture, then the skin a few inches away, and then repeated those motions again. He narrowed his eyes.

"This one's an Omega," he muttered.

"How did you-" Greg began, but Sherlock ignored him. He lowered the Omega's corpse and turned purposefully over to the other body. He immediately targeted its arms.

He lifted the body's right arm, inspected it briefly, and dropped it unceremoniously. He then began examining the left arm, looking closely around the wrist. As he did with the Omega, he touched a portion of skin, then another portion several inches away, and repeated. "Left-handed Alpha," he murmured.

Greg furrowed his brows in interest. "Care to let us in on what you've spotted?" he asked.

Sherlock pointed to the smaller body. "I needed to see if I could still see if the victims had any bondbites. A long shot, perhaps, but the sides and underside of the corpses have the least amount of damage from the flames. And oh, it's a good thing I checked. What I've found has given us an important clue about how the killer operates. It is difficult to see given the severity of the char, but there is a subtle difference around the skin and flesh at the neck. There is a 2.5 inch square there which has a deeper burn, implying there was no skin to burn through in order for the flames to reach the muscles and other tissues. In other words, consistent with skin removal. The lines of the cut seem clean, far too clean if it were done while the victim was conscious; therefore, it was most likely done post-mortem, although there's still the chance it happened while they were drugged. It also happens to be directly where an Omega's bondbite is typically found."

"Observe the same here," Sherlock said, lifting the arm of the corpse he was looming over. He pointed to a spot on the wrist. "This patch of burnt flesh is identical to the one on the Omega's neck. Same clean cut, same dimensions. However, this time it's where one would find the bondbite of an Alpha. While it's possible that these two may be unrelated, given that their bondbites have likely been taken as trophies, it is staggeringly unlikely. No. These must be the remains of a bonded couple. Go over missing persons reports, and I suspect these two shall be on the list."

"Huh," Greg remarked. "I wonder how long it would've taken for someone to spot that at autopsy."

"I shudder to even consider it," Sherlock said. "I'm going to take a few skin samples for testing, but after that, we're done here. Get out of that stupid outfit while I collect my specimens, Lestrade."

Greg backed away from bodies and quickly removed his own latex gloves. It didn't take him long to zip himself out of the suit, which he handed to the forensic detectives as they gingerly began to re-approach the bodies as Sherlock finished gathering his samples.

Greg watched the other Alpha stand and remove his latex gloves. The right sleeve of his coat sagged slightly, revealing part of the bondbite John had left there. Like all healthy bondbites it was deep red, the same hue as fresh blood, and even though it was put there ten months before, it was as clear and bright as if John had just bitten there. Greg saw Sherlock slip on his black gloves and rub at the spot on his wrist in what might have been his version of tenderness.

Greg looked down at his own wrist. These days, he usually covered it with a large wristwatch or long-sleeved clothing when he was out in public, but he'd been in too much of a hurry to leave Mycroft's place to remember. His wrist was bare, which put the mark of his broken bond on full display. The mark had faded immensely, so much so that the bottom was no longer visible at all. Only the top crescent was still present, and it was practically the same shade as his skin. It was slightly lighter, however – drained of its color. It was a pale, ghostly thing in comparison to the vibrant crimson mark on Sherlock's wrist.

The DI shoved his hand into his pocket. His chest ached whenever he saw his mark, and he burned with shame when he thought about it. But he wouldn't have to put up with it much longer. He would have a new mark soon, and his heart fluttered with hope that his new one would be brighter and stronger than the dead one had ever been.

Greg walked with Sherlock back to the entrance the building. With every step, he repeated that hope in his head. It bolstered his courage and when they were far off from the prying ears of Scotland Yard, Greg finally went for it.

"Listen, Sherlock," he said. "There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Not case related."

"Make it fast."

Greg took in a deep breath. "Before I came here, I was with Mycroft…"

"No," Sherlock groaned, recoiling as if Greg had suddenly become toxic. "I don't want to hear about the horrible dalliances you have with my brother."

"- and while we were together –"

"Lestrade, there are all these… _sounds_… coming out of your mouth. Each is more terrible than the last. They need to stop."

"- we decided we want to get bonded!"

Sherlock responded with a rattling croak of misery, running his hands through his curly hair. "There's no accounting for your abysmal taste, but go ahead and bite him if it'll keep you from talking to me about it!"

It was no secret that Sherlock was exceptionally rude at the best of times and almost completely impossible when it came to matters concerning his brother, but this was above and beyond what Greg had expected. Irritated, he crossed his arms and scowled. "Well, that isn't up to you, is it? I was hoping you'd tell me who the Head Alpha of your family is, so I can ask them."

"I am," Sherlock growled. "It's me. Bite him if you must, but be aware that I'll be deleting this conversation and any subsequent reminders you or he decide to hurl at me."

"Nice try, Sherlock," Greg said. "I know that you used to be the type who'd pull a lie like that to try to cause a big, embarrassing social faux pas for Mycroft, but it's not going to work. I really thought you'd matured past that kind of thing. Just act like an adult for once and put aside this childish feud you love so much."

Sherlock froze. He straightened up, perhaps a bit stiffly, and met Greg's determined gaze. "You're that set on the dull, arbitrary, and outdated whims of society?"

"If society wanted me to wade through a pool full of snakes with my pants on my head, I'd do it if it meant I'd get to bond with Mycroft in the end. I just want all this bonding protocol stuff to be nice and official and respectable. It's what Mycroft deserves."

"'What he deserves'," Sherlock quoted quietly, his tone somewhat sarcastic. Louder, he continued, "Perhaps, in a way, we're in agreement on that. You want to dance to the ridiculous beat that is the Concurrence Act? Fine. I'll make sure that every last little detail gets followed to the letter."

Greg relaxed slightly. "Thank you for being sensible on this, Sherlock. So you'll tell me the name of the Head Alpha of the Holmes family?"

"I'll do even better than that. Come to Baker Street at 6:30 AM, which should be…" He glanced at his phone. "… six hours from now. You may chat with the Head Alpha to your heart's content."

"Isn't that a bit quick to arrange a meeting? I'd really prefer it to be some other time. It doesn't give me very long to prepare at all!"

"Believe me, that time will be _very_ convenient."

Whoever the Head Alpha of the Holmes family was, they must have already arranged to meet John and Sherlock at their flat sometime prior. Maybe this really was the most convenient time for a meeting with them, and trying to arrange something else would be insurmountably difficult. The Head Alpha _was_ a Holmes, after all, and Mycroft had warned about them being a little troublesome. Being tricky to handle was practically part of the Holmes family motto. "Well, alright then. And the Holmes' Head Alpha will be there? This isn't part of some prank?"

"Honestly, Lestrade, you were just complimenting me on behaving sensibly, as you put it. Make up your mind," Sherlock said. "But I can assure you with absolute certainty that he'll be there. Now, I really must be going. I want to run a few tests on this sample before you arrive for your little rendezvous."

"Right," Greg said. He attempted to thank Sherlock for arranging the meeting, but the consulting detective was already running off, past the open door of the building and out into the now pouring rain, likely to find a major street and a cab to hail.

Greg stood by the door a moment, just watching the rain fall and feeling a bit of the cool spray of the water even from the relative safety of the warehouse. Finally, he pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Mycroft.

_Going back to my flat tonight. Meeting Head Alpha in morning. Might not make a good impression if he smells you on me. Even without sharing a heat, we HAVE taken pre-bonding liberties. – GL_

He didn't expect a response, thinking Mycroft might have already gone to sleep. So he was a little surprised when, about twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed as he was supervising the removal of the bodies to the morgue for autopsy.

_He already knows. Good luck. – MH_

Greg suspected the brevity of the text was due to the fact that the "You'll need it" went without saying.

* * *

Author Notes:

Yeah, Lestrade got to be a bit of a dolt in this chapter. He'll get better.

In the next chapter, Greg gets a big surprise... or two. Which he _really_ should have seen coming if he was a little more observant and less stubborn. Plus, a little more societal world building and how it may pertain to the case. Thank you all for reading and having patience since it looks like this thing may update a little slower than I'd like. Crit and comments are the absolute best, and I appreciate them all!


	3. Chapter 3

Greg could feel exhaustion and anxiousness weighing on his shoulders, forming a tight ball in his chest, and somehow even clinging to his bones as he made his way to Baker Street. The storm that had doused London in chilly rain a few hours before had slowly dissipated, leaving behind a dense fog in its wake. At fifteen past six in the morning, the streets were still quite empty, which only exacerbated the strange, desolate atmosphere brought on by the weather. All Greg could do was hope that all this gloom around him wasn't a bad omen.

At least he was dressed to impress, even if it did make him feel incredibly stuffy. He was wearing what were easily the best (and most expensive) articles of clothing in his entire wardrobe; just the shoes of this ensemble probably cost more than the price of every other scrap of clothing Greg owned put together. The suit was deep charcoal with subtle silver pinstripes, complimented by a light gray shirt and a dark burgundy tie. Although Greg was a much simpler man than the family he hoped to bond himself to, even he had to admit that he looked rather dashing.

Of course Mycroft had picked out every last part of the ensemble himself. Or, to be more specific, he had picked out the tailor himself. The first time Mycroft had gained access to Greg's wardrobe, he had despaired at the lack of – to use his words – "proper attire". Mercifully, he didn't hold Greg to his own impeccable style of dress. Thank God for that; after all, Greg was reasonably sure that if Mycroft owned a swimsuit, it would be a very literal one indeed, complete with lapels and a respectably-colored tie.

It had taken an awful lot of patience to put up with getting measured up, down, sideways, and in some altogether rather invasive places, but eventually Greg received his very first bespoke suit. And apparently it received Mycroft's seal of approval, given how quickly he began taking it off once Greg put it on.

Greg flushed at the memory.

A good first impression with the Head Alpha of a family was of utmost importance, and the fact that Greg was wearing a suit that Mycroft had picked would definitely make a strong statement indeed once said Alpha figured out that Greg's sense of fashion was nowhere up to the task of picking out such a suit unaided. If Sherlock and Mycroft were anything to go by, the Head Alpha would probably see through him in thirty seconds, one minute on the outside. But it could make a good impression, as long as Greg didn't try to pretend it was all his idea. It would show that he respected Mycroft's opinion and deferred to it when he knew his potential bondmate knew more about a topic than him. Which, to be honest, was most of the time.

Then again, some Alphas didn't like that sort of thing. To them, Alphas were meant to be the strong, dominant provider and head of the household and Omegas the meek, nurturing homemaker, there to bear and raise children but never pursue a career or any other ambitions of their own. That kind of thought was slowly becoming antiquated even as the Concurrence Act and other questionable old laws and social expectations continued to cling to their relevance. Really all Greg could do was hope that the Head Alpha didn't subscribe to those uncomfortable notions.

Well, he'd find out soon. There was 221 Baker Street.

He made his way to the door. He took a moment to check that no part of his suit had become untucked or rumpled in any way. Once that had checked out, he straightened himself up and steeled himself for what was to come. Then he rang the bell.

Mrs. Hudson was the one to answer, though Greg had expected that. The elderly woman smiled at him, looking not at all put out for being up so early to accept visitors into her building. "Oh my. Hello, Detective Inspector," she said, eying him up and down. "Sherlock said you'd be by around this time, though he didn't say a thing about you looking so dishy." She gave him a wink that was easily thirty years too lascivious for her.

Greg smiled awkwardly as she let him in. "Sorry for being here so early."

"Oh, that's not a problem. Not at all. You know, the older you get, the earlier you find yourself waking up. It really is the strangest thing. Next thing you know, I'll be waking up at midnight," she said as she guided him up the stairs. "So believe me, it's no trouble."

"Still, I feel bad about it. I wouldn't be here so early if Sherlock weren't so ridiculous."

"Yes, well, that's Sherlock for you," Mrs. Hudson said, her tone fondly resigned. Now at 221B, she gave the door a soft knock. Opening the door a crack, she quietly called, "Sherlock? Your visitor is here." She caught the confused expression on Greg's face and whispered to him, "John's probably still asleep, and he can use all the rest he can get."

Greg nodded. "Ah, right, because of his flu."

Now it was Mrs. Hudson's turn to look confused. "Flu? He hasn't got flu. He's-"

Sherlock opened the door, interrupting her. He brought his phone from his pocket and looked at the time. "6:30 exactly. Not bad, Lestrade. Come in, and thank you for seeing him in, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson took her leave as Greg entered Sherlock and John's flat, and he got the distinctly uncomfortable suspicion that she may have eyed his bum a little on her way out. As soon as he stepped inside, he smelled something odd and squinted in confusion. It was incredibly faint, barely even a whiff over the various other smells in the flat – and God knew the rooms had seen plenty of those with Sherlock's various experiments. Still, the scent was oddly familiar, and he felt a vague frustration in his gut for being unable to identify it, even though it was so very weak.

And that wasn't the only troubling thing related to scent. Greg could smell Sherlock and John, but he couldn't detect any unfamiliar scents; in other words, the promised Holmes Head Alpha was not there.

Greg fumed. "Didn't you _'assure me with absolute certainty'_ that the Head Alpha of the Holmes family would be here, Sherlock?!"

Sherlock huffed and strolled over to a small table on the living room. He picked up a large manila envelope, which he tossed at Greg. "He is," he said.

Frowning, Greg examined the envelope. It appeared ordinary enough, but his eyes widened the moment he opened it and removed its contents. The paper was thick and official, and on it was the long and fastidiously-recorded Holmes family tree. It started far up in the 17th century with **Dorothea Holmes (f-A) 1584-1634 {-} Radulphus Woodbury Holmes (m-O) 1587-1629** and the children from their union. Generations and generations of an ever-narrowing family tree thanks to bondings which produced only one to two children if members of the family bothered to bond at all, finally culminating in Mycroft (m-O) and Sherlock (m-A). The tree had to have been updated within the past year, since it included Sherlock's bonding with John, and –

That's when Greg noticed it. All the other Alphas listed on the tree were deceased. Sherlock was the only one still alive.

Greg slowly lowered the sheet of paper and stared at Sherlock, who looked back with a bored expression. "It really is you," Greg croaked. His throat felt dry and cracked, as if every molecule of moisture in it had immediately evaporated upon the revelation.

"As I said a few hours ago. Yet somebody seemed very keen on ignoring me."

"I just…" Greg swallowed, hoping to ease some of the sandpapery quality to his throat and mouth. It didn't really work. "I thought I'd be having this talk with your father. Or something"

"As you can see on that family tree, Father died seven years ago and 'Or Something' is otherwise unavailable," Sherlock replied. "There's a significant age gap between Mycroft and myself, and even then he and Mummy were approximately my age when they made the frankly rather ill-advised choice to have Mycroft."

"Hardly ill-advised," Greg grumbled. Still, despite himself, a bit of hope blossomed in his chest. Sherlock may be difficult, but hadn't he already given his permission back at the crime scene? "Then I have your permission to bond with Mycroft?"

Sherlock hummed and stroked his chin, striking the expression of someone deep in thought. "No."

"What?!" Greg exclaimed. He could feel his normally slightly tanned skin reddening in frustration. "Just last night you were telling me to go ahead and bite him!"

"I'm altering the deal," Sherlock said. "Pray I don't alter it any further."

"Now that's completely unfa- wait. Wait, hang on. I know that line. You've actually seen _Star Wars_?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "John insisted. He went on a rant for nearly 20 minutes on how it's 'indecent' that someone of our generation hadn't seen them, and then insisted we marathon all three films."

"But there are six of them."

"Are there?" Sherlock said in a tone which conveyed absolutely no interest whatsoever. "In any case, they were trifles. That one particular line may have somehow escaped the deletion process, however."

Greg scowled, but his mind was already scouring his memory for anything to throw back. Then he remembered a little side-note in all the things he'd tried to read on bonding laws and protocol; he'd thought he hadn't absorbed any of the information, but apparently he didn't give himself enough credit. He gave a challenging grin. "Ha, I've got a loophole. You may be the only living Holmes Alpha, but that doesn't make you the Head Alpha of the family. Part of an Alpha earning that title is that they have to have produced at least one living biological child. You and John are mated, but you don't have any kids. So without a proper Head Alpha, Mycroft can-"

Sherlock's face remained motionless, save for the smooth lift of his left eyebrow. "Tell me, Lestrade," he interrupted calmly. "What time is it now? Down to the second, if you would be so kind."

Greg frowned in confusion but glanced at the watch covering his dead bondbite. "It's, er- 6:46 and forty… three seconds."

"Wonderful. Four… three… two…" He pointed to the bedroom he shared with John. The door slammed open as the doctor, pale and trembling with one hand over his stomach and the other over his mouth, dashed to the bathroom. He didn't bother to close the door in his haste, and soon the sound of desperate retching filled the air.

The world must have magically lurched wildly on its axis, because suddenly Greg felt very dizzy indeed. He staggered over to Sherlock's chair and collapsed in it before his knees could give out on him. "Oh God." Cradling his head in his hands, he murmured, "Morning sickness."

That's what he had smelled when he first entered the flat: the first tiny, tentative hints of pregnancy pheromone in John's scent.

"That would be the popular, if frequently inaccurate, name for it, yes," Sherlock replied. Greg lost sight of him as he wandered into the kitchen. He never stopped talking, even as he clattered about making noise over his own monologue. "Though it has hit John like clockwork every day for the past week and a half, he is also prone to fits of nausea in the early evening. This can be attributed to the fact that emesis gravidarum likely results from the cocktail of new hormones playing havoc with his biochemical makeup. This change is responsible for everything from helping his body adjust to properly nurture the fetus to adding the tell-tale breeding notes to his bonded scent. It makes sense that he would be most affected when his body clock is at its most dynamic: winding up in the morning and winding down in the evening."

He returned to the living room carrying a broom. He stood in front of Greg for a few long seconds, maintaining unblinking eye contact before he began prodding the detective inspector hard in the ribs with the handle.

"Ow!" Greg protested, clambering from the seat and rubbing at the sore spot. "What's that for?!"

"My chair," Sherlock said. He sat upon it as if it was his throne and held the broom as if it were the most regal of scepters. "You were getting your stink all over it."

"Bugger this," Greg grumbled, loosening and removing his tie. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and the first two buttons of his shirt. With a frustrated growl, he ran a hand through his hair, causing it spike up in odd little angles. He then took a deep breath and held it, hoping it might quell the anger rising in him. He looked a rumpled mess, but he no longer cared one whit about that. "Bugger it. Being respectable is lost on you. You don't deserve the fancy tie."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, smirking. "Ten points."

Greg squinted at him and tilted his head in confusion. "Wuh?"

"Eloquent as always. Your little fit of pique amused me, so I awarded you ten points toward your goal."

"My goal? What goal?"

Sherlock's smirk faded to a scowl of distaste. "Minus five points for being dim."

"Hold on – this is about letting me bond with Mycroft. Once I have a certain number of points, you'll grant permission? That's ridiculous! You can't just… just…" He rubbed at his temples as he tried to come up with a good way to describe it. What came out of his mouth hit that mark in an extremely debatable way. "You can't just act like I'm in Gryffindor and you're a mad Hogwarts professor!"

"Speak English, Lestrade. Minus five more points for gibberish. And look at that, you're back at a clean slate. You might want to address that."

Greg opened his mouth, fully prepared to really give Sherlock a piece of his mind, but a voice from behind preempted him. "Ugh," John groaned as he entered the room, his left hand rubbing slow, soothing circles low over his stomach and his right hand rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I swear, if this kid keeps that up for the next six mon-" He blinked, finally seeing that he and Sherlock had a visitor. "Greg! Er, I was just… talking about… a new intern at the surgery?"

"Save it, John. He already knows you've got a stowaway," Sherlock said.

John frowned at his mate. "You told him? Sherlock, we agreed we were going to wait until I was three months in to tell anybody besides Mrs. Hudson."

"A superstitious old Omegas' tale. Nonsense. And you're only two weeks shy of that anyway; pushing the revelation ahead a fortnight hardly seems like a major problem. Besides, I didn't tell him. He inferred from context. A first, by the way. I'm very proud of him for it, much in the way a pet owner is proud when their very slow, incontinent dog finally comprehends its house-training."

"Oi!" Greg exclaimed.

John glared at his mate. "Sherlock, that was uncalled for. Also, what's this all about? Why's Greg here at half past too damn early in the morning looking like he's hungover at the Ritz?"

"I was _trying_ to fulfill my end of the Concurrence Act," Greg groused. "Mycroft and I want to get bonded."

That seemed to brighten John's cranky, restless, nausea-riddled mood at least a little. "Congratulations," he said. Turning his attention to Sherlock with a sharp look, he continued, "And have you given permission?"

"No," Sherlock answered. John glared harder, and Sherlock actually seemed to squirm slightly for a second under John's disgruntled gaze. Just when Greg was hoping this might turn the tides, Sherlock's bravado slid right back into place. "When Lestrade first approached me about his bid for Mycroft's doughy neck in bonding, he did two things. The first," Sherlock held up a finger. "He went on at length on how much he wanted a so-called proper, official, and respectable bonding with my brother. And the second" he held up another finger. "He refused to believe me when I said that I was the Holmes Head Alpha."

"So he chafed your pride. And? That doesn't explain why you haven't gone and given him permission."

"Though I have no competition for the title, Lestrade brought up a fun little-known legal flaw in how one becomes the Head Alpha of their family. In order to be eligible for the title, an Alpha needs two things. They must be bonded." He held up his hand, displaying John's bite there. "Check. And they must have at least one live child. You, more than anyone else, should know that that's a work in progress."

A little bit of color drained from John's face as he glimpsed at Greg. "In other words…"

"In other words, until the baby is born, I _can't_ give full and legal permission even if I wanted to. It's old, shoddily-written _and_ considered, and just all around the perfect tangled nightmare of an oversight to exploit to teach Lestrade an important lesson about blindly following the legal system. He and my brother will just have to wait and hope that he manages to impress in the intervening time. Oh, yes, you were vomiting at the time and are unaware. I've come up with a rather brilliant point-based merit system that I think should prove entertaining." He rolled his shoulders back and puffed out his chest a little, and even tilted his head up slightly in a proud gesture. John rolled his eyes at the display; if there was anyone out there with more preening Alpha pride than his mate out there, John hadn't met them.

"Points?" John asked.

"If he does or says something that I find worthy of praise, I'll award him points. Conversely, if he does something stupid, I shall deduct points. Right now he's at an even 0, though I'm tempted to deduct five because his cufflinks are much too large to be anything but garish."

"Jesus, you're worse than Severus Snape," John grumbled

"That's nearly what I said!" Greg exclaimed. "And Sherlock, you never did say how many points I'd need to earn in this mad game of yours."

"That's true, I didn't." Sherlock rested his thumb and forefinger against his chin in thought. "I'll determine that later, but for now, you can probably rule out anything above… 100,000 points. As wonderful an idea as it is, I don't think even I could relish it nearly that long. Any further questions?"

There was only thick, impenetrable silence and disbelieving stares from John and Greg.

"I'll take that as a no. Now, if that's all the dull personal talk, I have a much more interesting skin sample to get back to." With that, Sherlock sprang from his chair and made his way to the kitchen.

John shook his head. "Look, Greg, I'll try talking to him about this later. Mycroft probably knows all the laws in and out. Even if this loophole is as bad as Sherlock says it is, he's got to know some way to weasel – er, work around it."

Greg sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His head was gradually shaping up to be a din of throbbing and stabbing pain with the incredible headache that was starting to attack him. He was already exhausted from running around at the crime scene and getting less than hour of sleep between then and now. To make matters worse, his stress and anxiety over meeting the Holmes Head Alpha and making a good impression hadn't been allowed to dissolve with the sweet relief of knowing he had permission to bond with Mycroft. Instead, he had only confusion and frustration over the knowledge that Sherlock was not only going to draw out the Concurrence process and make it as irritating as possible, but that he was perfectly within the terrible legal jargon loophole to do so.

Picking up on the DI's burgeoning migraine, John urged Greg to sit in his chair and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "You're welcome to stay for breakfast if you like, but I'd completely understand if you'd rather leave as soon as you can to make a dartboard out of a picture of my insane mate's face."

"Thanks, John," he managed. "I'll stay a bit, if only for the strongest coffee you've got in the flat. D'you happen to have today's paper yet? Maybe going through it will distract me."

"Hm, I doubt Sherlock picked one up, even when he was on his way back from the crime scene," John said. Greg snapped his head up at that, fixing John with a surprised look. The Omega smirked. "Yeah, I know about it, and your face just confirmed it."

"So you're not upset he didn't let you know?" Greg chanced.

"Oh, I never said that," John said, putting his hands on his hips. "But I can yell at him about that later. Anyway, we might still have some of yesterday's paper around. Sherlock usually destroys the papers in some experiment or another, but recently I've been trying to save them for Mrs. Hudson. Her niece has started raising budgies and gave her one as a gift about two weeks ago, and the newspapers make good cage liners if you can pry them away from Sherlock before he can try burning, dissolving, or otherwise defacing them in the name of science. Hang on."

John headed for his former bedroom upstairs, leaving Greg alone with his increasingly insistent headache. It just throbbed worse when Greg realized that it probably wouldn't be long before they started converting that old room into a nursery.

Greg wasn't left alone for long, however. John came back to the living room with a small stack of newspapers. He handed them to Greg and then headed for the kitchen, presumably to start breakfast or chastise Sherlock. But, Greg thought, probably both.

The frustrated DI thumbed through the newspapers. The oldest was four days old, but the pages had jumbled together to the point that he could flip past Tuesday's weather and end up at Sunday's sports write-ups. Greg didn't spot anything of interest and was about to give it up as a lost cause when his eyes landed on something which gave him pause. He squinted and pulled the page closer to get a better look.

The article was little more than a dull update about some political hang-up that Greg neither knew nor cared about, especially since his relationship with Mycroft taught him that what the news _said_ was happening in the government rarely matched up to what was actually going on. But it wasn't the content that had caught his attention. Rather, it was the accompanying picture that had attracted Greg's attention. At first glance, it too held little interest; it was just an ordinary photo of two MPs engaged in some rather passive-aggressive banter, if their expressions were anything to go by. But there was a pin on the lapel of one of the MPs. Though the picture was a little grainy, Greg was certain about what he was looking at.

It was the symbol he'd seen on the card Sherlock had found at the crime scene.

The legs of John's chair scraped against the floor as Greg stood abruptly. Keeping the paper clenched tightly in hand, he rushed to the kitchen. As he entered, he saw that Sherlock was in a terrible sulk at the kitchen table, his body slouched and his fingers knotted in his curly hair. It was difficult for Greg to make out what he was saying with his face pressed into the tabletop, but it was something about how the skin sample was beyond useless. John, who was already buttering toast at the counter opposite, had the vaguely satisfied smirk of someone who was enjoying Sherlock's little taste of karmic retribution for leaving him behind.

"Sherlock – ah, and John, reckon you're part of the case now too – I think I've got something you need to see. Look," Greg said. Sherlock lifted his head like a surly teenager who was reluctant to wake up for school, and the moment he wasn't pressed bodily against the table anymore, Greg seized the opportunity to lay the paper down. He pointed at the photograph. "This picture."

For two or three seconds, Sherlock's grumpy expression didn't change. Then something flashed in his eyes and every cell of him seemed to light up in recognition. He grabbed the paper roughly and brought it close to his face, staring intently at the MP's lapel. "John, my coat, where is it?" he asked in a rush.

"You're still wearing it, you idiot," John said. He'd come close to see what the fuss was about, but looked baffled by Sherlock's revelation.

"Ah. So I am. Reach into my right pocket, there will be a card there. Hold it next to this picture."

John crossed his arms but otherwise did and said nothing.

"Any day n-" As if sensing the narrowing eyes of his mate behind him, Sherlock's misstep finally dawned on him. "Please," Sherlock said. The word still sounded odd on his tongue. "Do those things I said. Please."

"Not great, but better," John mumbled. Noticing Greg's confused look, he added, "If I'm going to be trying to train manners into a toddler eventually, I figured I'd better start with this one."

John finally obliged Sherlock's request and pulled out the business card from his pocket. The doctor's brow furrowed in confusion at the odd symbol, but he held it against the photo Sherlock was staring at so intently.

A wide grin spread across Sherlock's face. "Yes. Oh, this is a good start. Is the symbol associated with this idiot alone? Is it a secret society with a murder ritual? Not terribly secret if you go around with a pin stuck to you, but politicians are notoriously dim about keeping any of their shady dealings secret. Initiation attempt gone sour? Well spotted, Lestrade. That's twenty points."

Greg grinned, but the smile crashed the moment Sherlock opened his mouth and continued speaking. "Which means you're at 15 points. I wound up deducting the five points for the cufflinks after all." Before Greg could complain, the consulting detective dropped the paper and card onto the table and stood, beginning to pace the room as he brainstormed.

"Care to let me in on what this ugly symbol's all about?" John asked. As Sherlock quickly brought his mate up to speed on the discovery of the card and the nature of the crime scene, Greg picked up the card and held it up to get another look. Even with Sherlock's confirmation that the MP's pin and the symbol were one in the same, there was never any harm in checking again.

"Now," Sherlock said after he explained the situation to John. "The next step is to find out if the symbol applies to the man in the picture alone or if he's part of a group. However, I hate dealing with politicians. So, Lestrade: you have homework. Use your connection with the British government to find out that out. Fifty merit points are on the line."

That got Greg's interest, even if he was still convinced that the whole point system was patently ludicrous. "Anything else?" he asked.

"No, that's- ah, no. Who will be performing the autopsy on the bodies?"

"I made sure to get Molly Hooper. You can bother her about that instead of me."

"Excellent planning ahead. I'm feeling generous now, so have five more points. Enjoy being at an even twenty out of a currently unknown sum. That's all. Leave," Sherlock said. Looking over at John, he saw the warning glance there. "Please leave."

"C'mon, Greg, I'll see you out," John said. "Sherlock, I know you're on a case now, but you better eat the toast I made you." A displeased groan was Sherlock's only reply.

Once they were out of the flat and heading down the stairs, Greg thought it was safe to ask a question that had been percolating at the back of his head since he found out about John's condition. "So, this baby thing… you two have been bonded for almost eleven months. Have you been trying this whole time, or…?"

"When we first moved in together, you know we were very clear that we'd just be friends and flatmates. I think Alphas and Omegas _can_ just be friends, but obviously things got complicated. Then there was Moriarty, and…" John sighed. "When he came back and I could finally stand to be in the same room long enough for us to start to patch things up, things got even more complicated. I thought he'd never want kids in a million years, and I was fine with us being bonded but childless. But…"

"But?"

"But about half a year after we bonded, I noticed there was something weird going on with my birth control. There'd still be some there, but fewer pills than there'd been before. Eventually I asked Sherlock if he was stealing them for an experiment, but it turned out pill-tampering was his way of starting the 'I want kids' discussion. He got a lecture on how not good that was, let me tell you. But I took a month to clear my birth control from my system, and the next heat after that, well..." His hand pressed against his still flat stomach.

Greg gaped. "Did he say why he suddenly changed his mind?"

"Just that when he was scrambling all over the world to take out Moriarty's web, he had to really think hard and reexamine what he wanted out of life once he could stop being dead," John replied. "He's not used to feelings – never has been – and now he's got all these really powerful ones tearing through him that he's got to figure out. And I'm sorry to say it, but he'll probably be taking a lot of that stress and frustration out on you, especially as I get further along and my pheromones really start bringing out his crazy protective Alpha side."

Greg sighed. "So basically I picked the worst possible time to try bond with Mycroft."

"That's it in a nutshell," John said. He opened the door for Greg. "But don't let it get to you. I think you're good for Mycroft. God knows I've been able to stand him a lot more since you two got together. And deep down, beneath all the fat jokes and snippy remarks, I think Sherlock thinks the same. Good luck dealing with all this, Greg. If you ever need someone to vent to, just let me know."

Greg thanked him and let John get back to the difficult task that was trying to get breakfast into Sherlock. The fog was still rather thick and the skies rather gray, but the city had begun to wake up. There were more people on the streets. Bleary-eyed students stumbled out of 24-hour cafes and lurched toward university bus stops as men and women in business attire brushed past them to grab their morning coffees on the way to the office. The rush to start the day had begun in earnest.

In contrast, Greg's day had gone on entirely too long. Even though only about ten hours had passed since he left Mycroft's place the night before, he felt like he'd been awake for two months. He couldn't wait to get to his flat and collapse. Hopefully he'd be able to squeeze out a few hours' rest before he'd be needed anywhere.

But first, he had to get that homework started. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, ready to call Mycroft. To his surprise, it began buzzing in his hand. He looked at the call ID and huffed out a tired laugh. Mycroft was the sort of devil that you didn't even need to _speak_ about for him to appear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Gregory. Do you now see why I warned you about the Head Alpha situation?"

Greg sighed. "Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "It didn't go well."

"Yes, I know. I saw."

Greg stumbled in surprise at that, which led to him giving a bit of a kick to a toy poodle as it passed with its female Alpha owner. She gave him a sneer. "You… wait, how? You told me you haven't been bugging the flat since John and Sherlock bonded."

"Not since the unfortunate discovery that they don't keep their… activities… confined to the bedroom, no," Mycroft said. "And to answer your question, your cufflinks both contain small but powerful microphones. Likewise, the pin in your lapel has a camera within it. One does sacrifice image quality for portability, but such things are unavoidable."

As Greg listened to Mycroft's explanation, he lifted his lapel to peer with incredulity at the pin. Mycroft gave a disdainful hum and continued, "Yes, thank you for the close-up on the inside of your nose."

"_Why?_ Why go to so much trouble over something I was just going to tell you about anyway?"

There was a long pause. Greg frowned and was ready to ask if Mycroft didn't trust him for whatever reason, but his lover finally spoke again. "I like to keep a close eye on the things most important to me. You know that."

Some of the indignation that had been building up in Greg drained out of him. He was still a little irritated, but now wasn't the time for an argument. He might as well cut to the chase. "Did you see it, then? The picture and the symbol and all that."

"Yes. Luckily you held the card right over the pin in your lapel when you were looking at it. Please keep that habit up, it's very useful," Mycroft said. "As for the symbol, I have seen it. It's popular among some of the MPs and other government representatives who favor the DT movement."

"DT?"

"Dynamic traditionalism. 'When Alphas were Alphas and Omegas Omegas'," Mycroft said, his tone turning dry as a desert as the tired phrase slipped past his lips. "However, that pin is not itself representative of the DT movement. I'm sure there are some self-defeating Omegas out there who embrace those ideals, but I have only ever seen Alphas wear that symbol. I suspect it's a club or organization of some sort."

"Sherlock might be right about it being a secret society, then. Kind of like your club, maybe."

Greg knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment he said it, and he suspected that if he could see Mycroft's face, his lover's eyes would have rolled terribly. "Please do not impugn the Diogenes Club's dignity by comparing it to something so exclusionary."

"Sorry."

"Suffice to say, I'm precisely the sort of person to whom the DT movement would scrupulously avoid leaking their trade secrets, though I am far from a radical or even vocal proponent for Omega rights. I merely live my life as I please. Fortunately, my very minor position affords me the peace of relative privacy and anonymity, so I haven't run afoul of them. The best bet to learning about the symbol and whether or not it's related to those unfortunate bodies would be for an Alpha to infiltrate the society's ranks."

Greg thought about that for a moment as he stopped at a crosswalk. "Well, good thing we know somebody who likes to put on disguises and snoop around."

"Very auspicious indeed. And all the more fortunate that he has someone eager to be his brother-in-law who will be happy to help."

"Me? Really?"

"Of course. By necessity, John will be unable to assist in the operation. A pregnant Omega, out of the home, exposing himself to scents that don't belong to his Alpha? What a mockery of decency." Mycroft's voice turned from sarcasm to amusement. "Besides, think of all the points you could earn."

Greg winced. "Of course you heard that part. God help me, I'll do it."

"Excellent. I'll have Anthea draw up a false identity and identification papers for you. I'm certain my dear brother will be keen to create his own persona, of course. I'll also see to it that the right ears begin to hear rumors about two very well-connected Alphas who are looking to join their little secret club. From there, it's an easy task to make sure your contact information falls into their hands."

The crosswalk light flashed and Greg, accompanied by a throng of other morning pedestrians, was on the move again. "Right. I'll tell Sherlock the plan, but I'm going to sleep like the dead first. While we wait to get a bite from the pin-wearers, we can focus on identifying the bodies and getting a solid grip on their backgrounds," Greg said. Feeling that covered all his bases with the case, he cleared his throat and changed topics. "So, honestly, I don't know what to make of the fact that you don't sound all that put out by us having to wait to bond. If Sherlock allows it at all."

"I can be a profoundly patient man if short term disadvantage gives way to a bevy of long-term benefits," Mycroft answered. "Though we may not get to bond immediately, just look at what is gained in the meantime. Not only has my brother bred an Omega and thereby ensured that the Holmes line will continue, but he's adhering to social mores for once in his lifetime, even if it's only to spite you. He thinks he's inconveniencing us, yet he's living up to roles and fulfilling expectations I have strongly encouraged him to pursue for quite some time. Were my brother here for this conversation, I'm sure he'd say something snide about having my cake and eating it too."

Greg laughed and shook his head. "You can be really terrifying when it comes to sniffing out ways for you to win a scenario, huh? Remind me to never get on your bad side."

"It would be rather difficult, in your case. I've seen to it that you won't be needed at the Yard for the rest of the day. Go to my place. Get some rest. Now, I have a morning full of very long meetings to attend, but my schedule appears open enough for a rather long lunch." Mycroft lowered the volume of his voice, which gave it a husky quality that went a jolt down Greg's spine. "And I'll be sure to give you quite a reward for all your hard work today. Until then."

Mycroft hung up. Just as well, since Greg's mouth had suddenly gone rather dry. He was also fairly sure his face was turning the same shade of burgundy as the crumpled tie in his pocket. Hopefully Mycroft's generous mood wouldn't be dampened by how much the suit would need to be laundered and pressed, but perhaps the slightly rumpled quality would add an extra rugged appeal.

Greg couldn't wait to find out.

* * *

**Author's note - **

In the next chapter, we finally find out who the victims were, as well as how they died and how that ties in with the painful and controversial practice of severing bonds. Among other things.

Thanks for your patience with slow updates, and reviews/comments/crit are all very welcome! They keep me going.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Trigger/Content Warning:**_Some autopsy discussion and implications of bigotry (racial and sexual) in this chapter.

* * *

It was disappointing, but the initial autopsy performed the evening after the bodies had been found hadn't revealed much more than what Sherlock had already deduced. Quick blood testing had confirmed that the bodies belonged to an Alpha female and an Omega female, but that was the only immediate insight that could be gleaned from the situation. After seeing no sign of smoke inhalation in the lungs, Molly agreed that the fire hadn't caused the deaths. But even after a very thorough examination, there were no obvious signs of what could have killed them. There was food in their digestive tracks and no sign of serious dehydration. No blockages or crushed tracheas meant strangulation was out, and the lungs showed no evidence of other forms of asphyxiation. No stab, bullet, or blunt force trauma wounds. The only sign of any sort of violence were the patches of removed skin where their bondbites may have been. But not even that was much help. In the unlikely event that the victims had been alive at the time, the odds that it could have killed them were negligible.

Although the cause of death remained elusive, Molly was able to estimate that the victims had likely died within 24 hours of the discovery of their bodies. The burns made narrowing that down incredibly difficult, but from what Molly could tell from the state of the few soft tissues and organs that had avoided the fire, that window of time was far and away the most likely.

Sherlock had done what he could with the equipment in St. Bart's lab, screening for common poisons or drug overdose. All of those tests came up with nothing. As more and more potential causes of death were ruled out, Sherlock became increasingly convinced that they were dealing with a very unusual toxin. He was positive that something would show up in a full toxicology screening, but unfortunately that would take up to three weeks to complete.

In the meantime, there was the even more important matter of identifying the victims and thoroughly scouring their lives for any important detail which could factor into the case. Two and a half weeks after the bodies were discovered, the victims were finally identified. It was a long search indeed, full of scouring missing persons lists for bonded Alpha-Omega pairs and procuring and comparing dental records. But at long last, the poor, disfigured bodies had their names again: Alpha Myfanwy Evans-Qadir, a self-taught but promising freelance web designer, and Omega Zahra Qadir, medical student at Imperial College London, both age 22.

They'd been missing for nearly a month. Last seen leaving their favorite coffee shop, the two had apparently never made it back home to the tiny flat they shared in South Kensington. The flat was still locked when the police came to investigate the disappearance, and there was no sign of any struggle or of the girls packing and fleeing of their own volition. They had just vanished somewhere in the short ten minute walk between the café and their home.

Missing for nearly a month, but only dead for approximately a day at the time of their discovery. What had happened in those intervening weeks? Until the toxicology report came in, it was a matter of horrible speculation.

And it was time to tell their families the terrible news.

Greg always dreaded making The Call. Even though they were just two short words, they possessed such a grave and ponderous weight that Greg's shoulders felt heavy as he prepared to make the notifications. He never would have imagined how differently the two would go.

Unsure where to begin, he ultimately took the alphabetical route and called the Head Alpha of the Evans family first. Owain Evans' voice was like gravel rubbed across sandpaper, an ancient scratchy rasp of a nigh-impenetrable Welsh accent worn ragged over countless decades of breathing in salty sea air by day and pounding back whiskey with mates at night. Greg was pretty sure that the old man wasn't senile and that he actually was speaking English, but getting a straight, understandable answer out of him proved immensely difficult. It took just over an hour and countless repetitions to make sure he had the old man's statements correct, but finally Greg had Owain's account of his grand-niece's life.

Or part of it, anyway. He'd disowned the girl at age seventeen.

The Evans family had lived in Newport as far back as their records went which – as Owain boasted endlessly – was very far indeed. The family business relied heavily on fishing; the Alphas took to the sea, keeping their prized catches and selling or trading the rest with local markets and other fishing families, while the Omegas split their time between homemaking and staffing the family's popular restaurant and pub. Betas, as always, were exceptionally rare, and the sturdier ones joined the Alphas while those who lacked the constitution for the sea helped the Omegas.

Myfanwy had thrown a spanner into a system which, according to Owain anyway, had run without a hitch for centuries. Owain suggested that the girl had been shaken up "too much to fix" when a traffic accident claimed the lives of her parents when she was only six years old. Despite being raised in the home of her strongest and most boisterous Alpha aunt and being an Alpha herself, Myfanwy was rather meek, physically weak, and prone to terrible seasickness. She'd always been tall for her age, and the family hoped once puberty came along she'd fill out and find her strength and sea legs. Unfortunately, she remained skinny as a rail and far from athletic, favoring her studies and a burgeoning interest in computers. It only got worse when she entered sixth form and fell in love with an Omega.

At first the Evans family had been glad that poor black sheep Myfanwy had found an Omega who could put up with her decidedly un-Alpha ways, but slowly but surely cracks began to form. Myfanwy began to speak up whenever the family would "playfully tease" (in Owain's words) her about how poorly she fit in. She began saying things about how Alphas and Omegas ought to find places they fit into as individuals instead of conforming to the narrow holes that had been hammered out for them centuries ago. The final, shattering blow came when the Evanses found out _who_ their wayward landlubber had fallen in love with: Zahra Qadir, the feisty and ambitious daughter of Muslim Yemeni immigrants.

Owain gave Myfanwy an ultimatum: the family and its traditions or that… well, Greg pointedly did _not_ write down the racial slur the old man had used to describe the Omega. Myfanwy had chosen Zahra, and the Evanses had struck her from the family tree and from their minds.

"She's been dead to us for five years," the old man had said. "Her body just finally caught up." With that, he promptly hung up.

Greg needed the strongest coffee the Met offices had to offer after all that.

Braced with enough bitter caffeine to restart a heart, Greg had made the second call. To his surprise, the call only lasted about ten minutes, largely because, despite the very obvious grief in their voices, the Qadirs insisted on making the nearly three-hour drive from Newport to London as soon as possible. Greg had only needed to say that Zahra and Myfanwy had been found and that foul play was suspected in their disappearance and death.

Greg pulled his mobile from his pocket. He needed to inform Sherlock about this. As soon as he thumbed in his passcode, he noticed that he'd received a text while he was making the notification calls from his office phone. He'd silenced his mobile and turned off the vibration, not needing a distraction to make him come across as scatterbrained and rude.

**The toxin reports have come in. I'll be staying late if you want to go over them. – Molly**

The message was about forty-five minutes old at that point, but he quickly fired off a reply stating that he'd be by as soon as he'd dealt with the family and for Bart's to prepare release forms in case they wanted to make immediate funeral arrangements. With that completed, he opened up a fresh text to send to Sherlock.

**The victim's family is coming from Wales asap. Expect them here in about 3 hours. Can you make it? – GL**

**Which victim? Minus five points for lack of specification. – SH**

Greg rolled his eyes. His points had yo-yoed up and down so frequently over the past few weeks that he was beginning to have trouble keeping track of where he was in the rankings off the top of his head. At least he had note in a memo app on his phone for keeping track. He punched out the next text a bit more aggressively than he needed to.

**The Qadirs. Evanses are wankers. Did John learn Arabic in the Army? – GL**

**He picked up a few things here and there but concentrated on Pashto. Problem? – SH**

**No. They sounded fluent on the phone, but it never hurts to have a back-up. And again: can you make it?**

A few minutes ticked by with no response. Greg huffed and prepared yet another iteration of the question. But as soon as he was about to press 'send', the mobile buzzed with an incoming text.

**Will arrive at Scotland Yard in two and a half hours. – SH**

**Right. See you then. – GL**

**Oh, the sarcastic barbs just write themselves. – SH**

It was always a waste of time to puzzle over Sherlock's texts when he was in an enigmatic mood or, in other words, most of the time. Greg pocketed his phone and got to work compiling his notes from his conversation with Owain Evans and securing a room for the impending meeting with the Qadirs.

Two hours and thirty five minutes later, he stood outside the headquarters' main entrance in the waning orange glow of the late afternoon. The day had been rather brisk to begin with, but now that temperature was dropping steadily as the sun sank below the horizon. Greg shrugged into his coat, watching as a bit of his breath curled up in a thin wisp of vapor. He glanced at his watch when he heard the voice.

"Greg!"

John's voice. So Sherlock had brought him after all. Greg looked up, and it was John alright. Just John.

In the few weeks that had passed since Greg discovered John's pregnancy, Greg still had trouble wrapping his head around the idea that John and Sherlock would soon be parents. Given the season and John's affinity for jumpers, Greg wasn't even sure if he was beginning to show yet. As far as the DI could tell, John looked the same as ever, though perhaps a bit healthier and brighter now that the morning sickness had finally passed. On the other hand, his scent left no doubt that he was expecting. When John and Sherlock had come by the Yard earlier that week, the Yarders had been mixed in their reaction. Half seemed to wallow in terror over the idea of Sherlock Holmes' genes persisting into the next generation, while the other half gleefully accepted their winnings in various wagers and betting pools.

The doctor gave an apologetic nod as he trotted up to join Greg. "Sorry I'm a bit late. There was a delay in the tubes." His expression took a turn for the sour. "And as for Sherlock…"

Greg sighed. "He never planned on coming, did he?"

"Nope," John replied. "He got a text from Molly about the toxin results coming in today and he's been fixated on that ever since. He headed over to Bart's about an hour ago to pour over every last letter in that report. I told him I wasn't going to do this unless he let me hand out some merit points for you. He wanted to set the cap at ten points, but I haggled and got it up to thirty. He didn't want to give me any more since he knew I'd just give them to you the moment we met up."

That got a small smile tugging at the corner of Greg's lips. He turned aside, gesturing for John to go ahead of him as they headed inside out of the growing chill. "And are you?"

"Sure am." John grinned as Greg took out his mobile and added the points to his tally app. His face lit u in recollection. "Oh yeah, almost forgot. You should see the hideous thing he's rigged up in the living room." He pulled out his own phone and flipped through a few pictures. "See?"

It was a rectangle made of white tape which stretched from the ceiling to the floor. There were a few lines of red tape at the bottom, almost like the base of a thermometer in a cool room. There was a sign next to the ridiculous chart which read "LESTRADE'S POORLY-CONSIDERED QUEST".

"I wish I could say I was surprised," Greg muttered. "But I'm really, really not."

"It's going to be a nightmare getting that shit off without tearing the wallpaper," John said.

"Says the man who's got bullet holes in one of his walls."

They spent the next half-hour in Greg's office with John reading through the notes from the conversation with Owain and getting a copy for Sherlock to peruse later. Finally, there was a knock on the door.

It was a sergeant, a young Alpha woman with light brown hair and a trail of freckles across her nose. "Sir, the parents of Zahra Qadir have arrived. They've been taken to the room you requested."

Greg thanked her and let her go about her business. He looked at John, who answered wordlessly with a grim nod. They gathered up their notes and made for the questioning room.

The first thing Greg noticed about Jumana and Latif Qadir was how haggard and exhausted their expressions were as they sat across the table on the other side of the room. Their dark tan skin had an ashen quality to it and hung with a slight looseness around the chin, implying an extended period of poor nutrition. Jumana, the Alpha, was slim with features that must have been very graceful in her younger days. Her black hair was streaked heavily with rows of gray. The beauty of her dark brown eyes was undercut by heavy bags and deep, sleepless lines. Latif, the Omega, was tall for someone of his gender, standing at least two inches taller than his bonded. Most of his closely-shorn hair and beard was fully gray, though he looked no older than Jumana. To Greg's surprise, he did not wear one of the traditional modesty scarves around his neck like many Muslim Omegas did. There was a bonded Omega technician in Fingerprint Services who wore one, and even though she had extremely progressive views about her gender and religion, Greg had never seen her without it.

"Thank you both for coming on such short notice," Greg said as he and John took their seats opposite the grieving parents. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade; we spoke over the phone. This is Dr. John Watson, who's a consultant on this case."

"Dr. Watson," Jumana murmured to herself. "The same Dr. Watson who is bonded to Sherlock Holmes?"

"That's right," John answered. "He's on this case but isn't here because he's at the hospital where the autopsies were performed. The results for the cause of death may have come in today."

"What is it? What did the monster who stole our Zahra and Myfanwy from us do?" Latif demanded.

"We won't know for sure until we examine that report, but we suspect some kind of poisoning," Greg said, working hard to keep his tone level. "I can tell you more about what we know, but I have to warn you that it's not pleasant."

Jumana and Latif exchanged a long, intense look. Finally, they turned back and Greg's gaze met two pairs of solemn eyes. "Please tell us," Jumana said. "It is our duty to know. We must share what they suffered."

And so Greg shared all they knew about what had happened to Zahra and Myfanwy. It was gut-wrenching to watch the Qadirs' faces contort with loss and pain as Greg recounted what he could share with them. As he wrapped up the report, he took a deep breath and said, "I read up a bit on Muslim customs when we identified Zahra, and I sincerely apologize that – on top of everything – you haven't been able to do the normal funeral rites in the proper time frame."

"That is because there is nothing normal or proper in what has happened," Latif said. His voice and body trembled slightly with barely contained emotion. Grief? Rage? Perhaps both in equal measure. "My daughter and her bonded have had their lives stolen in the prime of their youth, before they even had a chance to really live. If this world were 'normal' and 'proper', they would have had long, fulfilling lives and be buried with utmost respect and dignity by their children fifty years from now. Not… not the despicable thing that has happened to them."

Jumana frowned, her lips drawn thin and tight. "Please understand. We have worried about this since the moment Zahra and Myfanwy went missing. And now we have had our worst fears confirmed. One long month with this nightmare lurking in the shadow of our hearts, and now it has come true."

"No, no, that is completely understandable," Greg said. "The fact that you can come here so quickly and be so willing to answer questions despite that pain is remarkable. You clearly loved your daughter very much."

"Of our five children, she was our youngest. Our only Omega," Jumana said. She took in a long, shaking breath and held it, hoping to retain her composure.

"We will do _anything_ to see vengeance come upon the monster who did this," Latif said.

"In that case, we are very much on the same side, Mr. Qadir," Greg said. "Now, this may be painful to think about, but… before I called you, I talked with the Head Alpha of the Evans family-"

Latif hissed something in Arabic which made John's eyes widen in surprise. Apparently the Arabic he'd picked up while in the Army wasn't as rusty as he'd thought, at least where profanity was concerned.

"I've got no idea what that translates to, but I think I agree wholeheartedly," Greg said. He sighed and rubbed at his temples. "Not exactly the most understanding family, that's for sure. But… do you think they would have wanted Myfanwy and your daughter dead?"

"No," Jumana answered. Latif scowled, but nodded his agreement. "They are stubborn racists, but they are not murderers." She shook her head. "I don't know why anyone would do this to our Zahra and Myfanwy. Zahra is… was such a strong, smart, and bold girl-"

A bark of bitter laughter cut her off. John and Greg turned to look at Latif, whose shoulders were quaking with the harsh and mirthless sound. "That _is_ why!" he exclaimed. He stood abruptly, nearly sending his chair toppling over. "The world hates an Omega who is all these things. And everywhere, it is all the same. I thought we were wise. I thought we had picked a lesser evil. I thought our family had moved from a land of great injustice to a land of smaller injustices. Yet my daughter is dead all the same."

He turned his back to the others, still shaking with barely-contained force like a lidded pot filled with vigorously boiling water. He raised his trembling right fist and, with a shout that was half misery and half fury, slammed it against the wall with all his might. The lamp overhead jittered and swayed.

"Latif," Jumana murmured listlessly. Greg took a single step toward the grieving Omega, but stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was John. The pregnant doctor shook his head, a grim look on his face.

He ushered the three Alphas to the door. "Let me talk with him alone," he said quietly. "The last thing he needs right now is to be crowded by Alphas, even if one is his bondmate." He gave Jumana a sympathetic glance.

Jumana gazed sorrowfully at her mate's back for a moment before her eyes slid shut and she gave a weak nod. "Yes, I understand. That is for the best."

"C'mon," Greg said, opening the door for Jumana. "I'll see if the next room over is free. We can talk there."

Fortunately, the room was not in use, so Greg and Jumana moved over in silence. Once the door slid shut behind them, the woman practically collapsed into the chair. She pressed her hands over her eyes, and it wasn't long before tears were streaming down her cheeks and falling in plump droplets from her chin. "He is so much like her," she croaked when Greg drew near, putting a comforting hand on the other Alpha's shoulder. "Even though I am the Alpha, I could never match their strength. Zahra and Latif were cut from the same cloth – brave and bold and fierce with their morals. And I am much like Myfanwy – quiet and calm and meek. So, though we love all our children equally, we were especially close with them. Zahra and Myfanwy wanted to do as Latif and I did. He is the one with the higher education and the wonderful job. I raised the children at home, even though he was the one who bore them. We would never have been able to do this if we stayed in our home country."

"You can talk about it if you'd like," Greg offered.

Jumana sniffed and nodded, drying her eyes with a handkerchief she brought forth from her pocket. "He was arranged to be bonded my elder brother, who can be a… harsh man. He is set in the ways of how Alphas and Omegas should be," Jumana said. "It would have been trouble for both of them. But I became Latif's intended when my brother chanced upon an Omega who had entered his first heat unsecured and bonded with him in the frenzy. The poor boy was his parents' only child, and his family was foolish and thought he would become an Alpha. Nothing could be done, as it is a terrible crime in my homeland to sever a bond. They will kill you for it if you do. They say Allah guides Alphas and Omegas together and bonds their souls as one, and the boastful men who kill the bond before its time are as ignorant and destructive as moths chewing holes through an intricate tapestry."

Greg's shoulders sank a bit as he looked down at his covered wrist. He swallowed, hoping the action might combat the heavy lump that had formed in his throat. Subtle as it was, Jumana saw his distress. "There are many reasons why Latif and I made our home here. We do not wish you ill for your severed bond, Detective Inspector."

"No, sorry, no – it's not you," Greg said, stumbling over his words. "It's just bad memories."

Jumana nodded. "And that is why Latif and I have trouble believing the claim that all bonds are divinely chosen. We may fit well together, but what of the poor, unhappy people like my brother's bondmate? My brother was the heir who would one day control the family. We could not have him arranging bonds for our children. So Latif and I came here, where our children could find mates who fit them best without having to rely on luck. Because luck runs out."

After getting so much off her chest, Jumana fell silent. Greg gave her a few respectful minutes to compose herself. Finally, a knock on the door broke the silence. "Come in," Greg said.

The door swung open and Latif and John entered. The grieving Omega was carrying a small leather case; Greg supposed he'd missed seeing it under the table in the other room. Latif knelt by his bondmate, where he whispered something in Arabic to her. His voice had gone thick and hoarse, and Greg could only assume that he had broken down in a similar way with John. Jumana murmured something back, and she pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her Omega's jawline just beneath his ear.

"You should tell DI Lestrade what you told me, Mr. Qadir," John said.

Latif took a seat by his bondmate. "Zahra was a passionate and vocal worker for Omega rights and gender issues. She volunteered and protested whenever her busy study schedule allowed. Everyone at Imperial College knew her and her convictions, and she got into many arguments for it. Three weeks before they disappeared, someone destroyed their bicycles and left a terrible message. They sent a picture."

He reached into his case and pulled out a picture of two bicycles completely taken apart with the frames and spokes bent and twisted, most likely from the powerful blows of some kind of hammer. Carved into the pavement by the bikes were the words "KNOW YOUR PLACE SLIME" and "KNOTLESS PUSHOVER".

Greg frowned. "Three weeks before they disappeared, you said?"

"Yes," Latif said. "They filed a police report but nothing came of it before…"

"Before they were kidnapped," Greg finished. "I'll get ahold of that report and add it to our files. Right now we just don't know if it's just a coincidence or if it could lead us straight to the killer."

"There is another picture we want you to have," Latif said. He reached into his case. This time he and Jumana gazed at the picture for a moment, their eyes clouding up with tears again. Finally, he handed the photo to Greg.

Two young women smiled brilliantly for the camera. The taller of the two had pale skin with freckles speckled all across her cheeks and down her arms. Bright blue eyes peeked out from beneath the fringe of her chin-length dishwater blonde bob. The shorter winked playfully; she'd wrapped the long, intricate braid of her black hair around her bondmate's shoulders like a furry python. Like her father, she bucked tradition by proudly displaying her bondbite. Both girls had one hand up in a c-shape; pressed together, their hands formed a heart.

"Think of them like this," Jumana said. "See their faces, not their corpses."

Although St. Bart's was the next destination for Greg, John, Jumana, and Latif, it was decided that the best course of action would be for the four of them to separate. The Qadirs would be escorted by a pair of sergeants to claim the bodies of their youngest daughter and her bondmate so they could finally begin funeral arrangements. Meanwhile, John and Greg would join Sherlock and Molly in the lab and see what the toxicology report had to say. In any case, Greg and John agreed, it was for the best to try to keep the Qadirs from coming across Sherlock and his irascibility and bluntness.

By the time Greg and John made it to Molly's usual lab, the Beta woman wasn't there. Sherlock was, however, and he was clicking away at Molly's laptop like a man possessed. It took a few attempts to get his attention, but he finally snapped out of his intense focus.

"Where's Molly?" Greg asked for the third time.

"She said something about... something." He shook his head and gave a little growl. "Deleted it instantly, wasn't necessary to the process. I was _and am_ gathering information."

"I said, 'I need to go sign off on the bodies since I performed the autopsy'," Molly said as she entered the lab.

"Yes, something to that general effect," Sherlock muttered distantly, once again coming dangerously close to getting caught in the throes of his research.

"Mm, well, those were my exact words. Everything's all signed now, though, so I suppose it doesn't matter. Hello, Greg, John," Molly said. She stooped a little until she was face-level with John's middle. She gave an enthusiastic little wave. "And baby."

"Why are you waving? It can't see you," Sherlock said dryly. "Even if it weren't beneath layers of skin, muscle, and tissue, it doesn't even have proper eyes yet."

"Yeah, well, _I_ do," John said. "And I appreciate the thought, Molly. Thank you."

Molly smiled. "How are things going so far? Have you felt it move yet?"

"So far so good," John replied. "It's just the 14th week, though, so I haven't felt anything yet. Probably won't for a few weeks, unless it takes after its father and starts having big dramatic hissy fits."

Sherlock scoffed but otherwise remained glued to the computer search.

"Hopefully not," Molly said. "I've already found an adorable present for it to wear, and it would be so disappointing if it fussed and hated it."

"If you're referring to this pyjama suit with cat ears and a tail in your search history, it's very… you."

Molly sighed. "I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment."

"I'm not sure it matters when he's looking through your search history without permission. Cut it out, Sherlock."

Sherlock wasn't paying any attention. He'd come across something that made his left eyebrow rise in amusement. "Well, Molly – or perhaps I should say 'meowlly' – this tumblr is certainly illuminating. I never would have taken you for the type to reblog so much Alpha-on-Alpha erotica. I thought you'd go in for soppy, overly-romanticized, excruciatingly normative Alpha-Omega romance with an emphasis on wish-fulfillment, and while it looks like there's some of that, it's the overwhelming minority."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, mortified.

"I wonder how many times the word 'knot' appears in this story you've linked," Sherlock murmured. "Just from a cursory glance, I would estimate-"

The laptop shut abruptly as Molly slammed her hand on its lid. Her face burned bright red. "Th-th-that's enough of that!" she squeaked. "A-and I'll have you know, those stories u-usually have really good plot and world-building! Besides, you said you needed to use my laptop to look up information for the case."

"Which I did," Sherlock said. "They're in the other tabs in your browser. Very useful information, by the way. It would be a shame to not have such good visual aids."

Molly sighed, "Fine." Sherlock grinned and reached for the laptop, only for Molly to grab it and hold it tightly to her chest. "But I'm the only one who gets to touch it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sprung up from the computer chair. Molly sat and, taking great care to ensure that nobody else could see the screen, closed out a few tabs. "Okay, it's… it's all cleared out," she muttered, her face still bright red with embarrassment.

"Start with the first tab, Molly," Sherlock said. He glanced over to John, who was giving him a glare. "Please. And I'm sorry you have questionable taste in…" John's glare intensified. "I'm sorry for looking at your search history."

"It's alr- well, no, I suppose it's not alright. But thank you for apologizing," Molly said. "This tab?"

Greg and John moved in to get a better look at the two pictures in the browser. The one up top was of a marshy field with a red tint to it. The second was a close-up on one of the plants, which had many clusters of small, blood red flowers.

"_Cicuta rubra_, commonly known as the red water hemlock," Sherlock stated. "Colloquially known as bondbane, bondwort, and reaper's kiss."

"From the sound of that last one, I'm guessing it's poisonous," John said dryly.

"Extremely so," Sherlock said. "Like every member of the _Cicuta_ species, every part of the red water hemlock contains deadly cicutoxin, a poison that wreaks havoc on the central nervous system. All the other _Cicuta_ plants just poison and kill you. But this plant doesn't stop there. No, it's got a far nastier trick up its sleeve. What you are looking at is the primary if not _only_ active ingredient of every bond-severance treatment medically available."

In a flash, the memory of the terrible aches and illness Greg had suffered through his bond severing process washed over him. It was only there a moment, but it left his heart pounding and his stomach churning regardless.

"Next tab, Molly," Sherlock commanded. Molly clicked, revealing a picture of an old Germanic wood-carving. A man holding two fistfuls of bondbane stood between a prone and weeping male Omega and a snarling male Alpha, who was being held back by two other individuals. Two richly-dressed Alphas stood at the side. "For centuries, bondbane has been used by healers as the only way to sever a bond. Of course, given how easily the treatment is to botch as well as how controversial bond-severing is to begin with, practitioners were often labeled evil witches or sorcerers and handled accordingly. But it seems rich merchants and powerful politicians have always been willing to secretly deal with the devil in the name of protecting their property and business transactions."

"That's why they were missing for weeks but only dead about a day," John said, frowning at the image on the screen. "Whoever was keeping them was severing their bond."

"They had to have been kept in separate places, then," Greg said, his voice rough and thick. He tried to clear his throat, but his voice kept the raw and scratchy emotion. "When I was… when I went through my bond-severance, my ex and I weren't allowed to see each other. The doctors said if we saw or scented each other during the severing process, it wouldn't work. And if we saw each other just after…"

He trailed off. He couldn't speak around the lump in his throat anymore.

"Next tab, Molly," Sherlock said grimly. Molly, who was giving Greg an openly pitying look, snapped her attention back to the laptop.

The next image was an old American poster from World War II. **TO ALL THE RESCUED PRISONERS OF WAR, LATE-RETURNERS, RE-DISCISCOVERED SOLDIERS MISSING IN ACTION: THERE'S ANOTHER DEADLY DANGER LURKING JUST AT HOME!**, the first line read. The poster continued in a much larger, bolder font: **_BOND SHOCK!_** Beneath those two provocative words was a picture of a female Alpha soldier holding a bouquet of flowers, about to knock on a door of a house where an Omega male in widowers' mourning clothes wept inside. The skeletal specter of the Grim Reaper lurked behind the soldier, his bony jaw set in a menacing grin.

_If you have reason to believe that your bondmate has been (wrongfully) informed of your death, take utmost caution!_, the poster informed. _Bond shock is serious and can easily strike him or her dead! Do NOT surprise your bondmate with your return! Instead, tell other friends and family first to make sure your bondmate's mark hasn't faded. If it has, call the following number to arrange a (free!) rehabilitation service for you and your loved one._

"We were warned about this all the time back in Afghanistan, and I studied it a bit in med school. If I remember correctly, everyone ever afflicted with bond shock has ended up brain-dead at best," John murmured. Horrible realization dawned on him and he turned to Sherlock. "You think the murderer intentionally killed Myfanwy and Zahra with bond shock?"

"It fits with the cicutoxin levels in the report," Sherlock said. "When one's bondmate dies, or if one believes they have died, the body naturally produces an enzyme which slowly dissolves the bond. The process is very taxing physically, and if the surviving bondmate is old or infirm in some way, they often pass away soon themselves. Bondbane releases a chemical which mimics that enzyme; if the proper conditions are met and small doses of that plant's particular strain of cicutoxin are administered, it tricks the body into believing its bondmate has died. That is what happened to our victims."

Chills were running down Greg's body. His skin felt cold and clammy with the faint sheen of sweat that had begun to form after his voice had failed him. Even as his body began to shiver with the tingling sensations in his skin, his heart fluttered wildly. He took a few steps back from the computer as the others continued to stare at the accumulated information on the laptop. A faint hum began to drown out Sherlock's words as he continued to speak, making it difficult for Greg to hear.

"The killer kept them in complete isolation, steadily poisoning them. Then they organized a terrible reunion, knowing what would happen," Sherlock said. "Perhaps it's a blessing that the bond shock killed them. Even consensual bond-severance is deeply traumatic, physically and mentally. And like any deeply traumatic experience – "

Greg began to sway.

" – those who come out the other end alive – "

The world blurred as bursts of brightness ate away at the corners of his vision.

" – can suffer – "

His knees buckled.

" – flashbacks."

Everything went black as Greg hit the floor.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

1) If I made any grievous errors in the portrayal of the Qadirs as very progressive Muslims, please let me know. I did research and tried to be as respectful as possible, but I'm neither Yemeni nor Muslim, so it's very easy for me to make mistakes beyond what I intentionally changed as part of some Omegaverse world-building.

2) The species _Cicuta_ is real, as is cicutoxin, though I made up _Cicuta rubra_ and its effects. So that's where that dang fictional botany tag finally comes in.

3) I don't know if it really comes across in the story and it's ultimately not that important, I guess, but Molly has gotten over her crush on Sherlock and is generally a bit less shy for it. And I'd follow Molly's tumblr in a second. It's got all the best cat gifs and porn, and usually not in the same post.

In the next chapter:  
Let's have that flashback. All about Greg's bond-severance and the complete physical, emotional, and psychological hell it is. But perhaps not all doom and gloom, as we get to see how Greg and Mycroft began to become an item.

Thank you for reading! Reviews/crit is welcome with open arms!


	5. Chapter 5

**TRIGGER/CONTENT WARNING:** Physically and emotionally painful medical treatment, elements of depression, mentions of suicidal ideation, and self-neglect.

* * *

It was hard to tell when the first crack appeared. Maybe it had always been there but easily missed, like a tiny chip in a car windshield. Something so small could easily be overlooked or rationalized away as a completely inconsequential blemish. But over years with the atmosphere running hot and cold, a tiny crack can grow and spread until it can no longer be ignored. Until no matter where you look, there's the reminder that what's right in front of you is irrevocably broken to the point that there's just no fixing it. All you can do is wait for it to finally shatter and have the stinging, cutting pieces rip your skin to shreds.

This was Greg and Julia's relationship. They'd never had any loud, screaming fights. Neither had ever thrown a few articles of mismatched clothing in a suitcase and stormed out, slamming the door behind them. No pots or pans were ever hurled haphazardly only to narrowly miss colliding with a face. No, nothing so blatant and dramatic had ever been part of their lives.

They were the epitome of the teenage sweetheart stereotype. They'd met when Greg was seventeen and Julia just shy of sixteen and fell easily into a steady relationship. When he was 21 and still sporting a few spots left over from adolescence, Greg dressed in his best suit (considerably less fancy than the suit he'd wear 25 years later for the same purpose) and asked Julia's father for permission to bond with her. His future father-in-law agreed readily and they formally shortly thereafter. They were parents less than a year later.

Maybe the first sign was the tiny flickers of doubt Greg experienced, starting just after Peter was born and only increasing three years later when Nicholas came along. Bonding so quickly and so early was incredibly common; nearly all of his mates from school and his peers as a novice police officer were doing the same, if they hadn't done so already. Between the long hours of his training and novice police work with the Met and the sleepless nights spent up with two very young children, he couldn't help wondering if it had all happened too fast. He felt guilty about those feelings and kept them bottled up deep inside, worrying that if he shared them with Julia she'd think he regretted bonding with her or having their child. And that _wasn't_ the case. At least, not completely.

Time and progress were marching on. More and more people were holding off a bit when it came to getting bonded, choosing to live independently a bit longer instead of settling down during or immediately after their late teen years. More Omegas began taking birth control or, even more controversially, heat suppressants; with more newfound biological freedom, many Omegas began pursuing careers in fields which had previously been inaccessible to them. As the years ticked by, each new wave of rookies reflected this paradigm shift. Unlike Greg's peers, fewer and fewer young officers were already bonded when they began their work, and by the time Greg had been with the Met for ten years, there was a sizeable and growing number of Omega officers.

It was difficult to avoid having a few bitter thoughts from time to time when you were part of the final years of the final generation before such social changes began to take root. Sometimes, he wondered if Julia had the same secret doubts. She had to, he reasoned, given that she went on heat suppressants not long after they were widely commercially available. Still, it was something they never talked about. But then, as time wore on, they didn't talk about much of anything outside of things relating to the boys, finances, and other family matters. The silence at home was daunting, but it was the ultimate chicken-and-egg scenario. Which came first: the awkward, subtle tension between him and Julia, or how much his work as an up-and-coming detective kept him away from home?

Then one summer evening things began to change. The kids were spending the week with Julia's parents, leaving the flat even more chilly and silent than it normally was. They were watching the news in strained silence, subconsciously sitting as far apart from each other as the sofa would allow, when there was a loud knock at the door. Greg got up to see who it was, and when he returned to the living room, he had a chain-smoking drug addict in tow.

Sherlock Holmes was brilliant. Utterly, insufferably mad and chemically-dependent, but brilliant all the same. The young Alpha had been pestering Scotland Yard for a while and nobody was willing to put up with him for more than a few seconds. Then, more out of curiosity than anything else, Greg struck up a conversation with him. He came away from it floored by Sherlock's pure deductive talent and had been contacting him for help on particularly nasty cases over the past few months. And now here he was, collapsed on the Lestrades' sofa, obviously coming down hard from a high, and complaining loudly about just about everything. Even though it was likely a foregone conclusion that Greg and Julia's relationship would end, that ushered it along faster than anything else.

Sherlock had been kicked out of his apartment, his third eviction in slightly over half a year. As he lay on the sofa with the palms of his hands pressed firmly over his eyes, he ranted about how his "hideous fat brother" was coming to give him the 'option' (sarcasm dripped heavily from the word) of going to rehab or getting cut off entirely from his trust fund, which was sustaining him and his various habits. Greg wondered exactly how real this brother was and how much of Sherlock's story was a delusion from the crashing high. But then there was another, calmer knock at the door.

There absolutely was delusion involved, Greg decided. There was nothing hideous or fat about Mycroft Holmes at all.

All told, Sherlock had only been in his home about ten minutes and Mycroft even less than that before Greg watched as other men in posh suits came in to help usher Sherlock out of the house and into a car with dark tinted windows. It was all very sudden and baffling, and Greg was only able to get out one question as Mycroft finished up spiriting his brother away: "Will I ever see y- _him_ again?"

That had stopped Mycroft on his way out. The posh Omega gave Greg an odd, appraising look that had sent the DI's heart hammering slightly. Finally, he responded, "If we are all very lucky." And with that, he left, ending the whole strange moment as quickly as it had begun.

When Greg's spinning mind came back down to earth, he noticed that his furious bondmate had been trying to get his attention for God knows how long. With her arms crossed over her chest and her tone clipped, she said, "If that's the sort of company you want to keep, perhaps you ought to get your own flat."

It wasn't until much, much later - until he and Julia had tried and miserably failed at couples' therapy, until Sherlock came back tenuously sober and became flatmates with an ex-Army Omega a few weeks thereafter, until he began to see Mycroft somewhat regularly to report on how Sherlock was faring, until he'd lie awake at night in a tiny flat of his own - that Greg wondered if she hadn't been referring to his association with Sherlock.

* * *

"I want to sever the bond."

Greg nearly choked on his sip of beer. He managed to swallow the liquid down but not without a lot of coughing and sputtering. When he was finally able to breathe again, he wheezed, "_What?_"

Julia frowned at him from across the small table they shared. "You heard me, Greg. Why did you think I asked to meet with you?"

"I dunno, I thought… maybe we were going to try to talk about patching things up."

There was no immediate answer. An awkward silence fell between them, leaving only the distant murmur of other patrons, the clinking of glasses and cutlery, and other ambient noises of the restaurant. Finally, Julia sighed. "We've lived apart for over three years. We barely see each other except when it's something important related to the family, and even that's no guarantee. When was the last time we acted or even _felt_ like we were still bonded, because I sure as hell don't remember."

Greg's shoulders sank, heavy under the truth of her words. "Bond-severance is so severe, though. I'm – well, I'll be honest, I can't say I'm happy the way things are, but I can live with it. It's got to be better than the torment I hear people go through when they have it done. What could be worth that misery?"

"I thought that too. Why do you think we've been in this bloody loveless limbo for so long? I didn't even ask for a severance when the media disgraced you over that Sherlock Holmes scandal, even if they're eating their words about it now that he's back from the dead with proof of his innocence." She scoffed. "Maybe innocence is the wrong word. Authenticity. But that's beside the point."

She took in a deep breath. "I met someone. Another Alpha," Julia said softly. "We can talk for hours about anything and everything. Every time we're together, it feels like we click perfectly into place. He's worth it."

"Oh," Greg murmured. Was it a good or a bad sign that that revelation left a hollow spot in his chest? Not a burning ball of jealousy or the sad weight of heartbreak – nothing.

Julia pushed an olive in her salad around with her fork a bit. "Honestly, for the longest time I thought you were going to be the one to bring this up first."

Greg's brows furrowed. "Why?"

"Come on, Greg. You and Holmes."

"Sherlock's an Alpha. I know it's been a long time since you and I have been intimate, but I'm still heterodynamic."

Julia rolled her eyes. "Not that one. The other one."

Greg's eyes darted down, suddenly very interested in the bubbles of carbonation in his beer. The hollow in his chest filled with something, but what a knotted and complicated thing it was. It felt as if someone had trapped a small, desperate bird in his ribcage, given the fluttering and thudding he was feeling. "It's not like that. Mycroft and I only talk because of Sherlock."

"The only person you're good at lying to is yourself," Julia said. She took a sip of her wine and sighed. "It's none of my business whether or not you choose to be a little introspective and honest with yourself for once. Just please say you'll consent to the severance. You're a good man and a reasonable Alpha. Do the right thing."

He looked at her for a long moment. Taking in and holding a deep breath, he nodded.

* * *

Although medical bond-severance had won the battle to be a legal and regulated practice, it had done so very narrowly. Ultimately, it had gained what little traction it had from advocate groups showing incontrovertible proof that desperate people had always attempted to have their bonds severed, very frequently with fatal results. If they were going to run off and choke down poisonous plants on their own accord, better to have the whole process regulated and supervised. Still, that didn't the program had everyone's unflagging support. General opinion was rather negative, and London's lone severance facility, the Lethe Clinic, was often the subject of criticism and occasionally even protests.

Greg and Julia had been going to the clinic for two weeks, attending mandatory one-on-one discussion sessions with the staff and volunteers and having to sit through several classes on preparing for the treatment, what to expect during the process, and how to remain safe and healthy after the procedure was completed. Bond-severance was not something to be done rashly, in a fit of pique, or out of spite, after all.

In that two week educational and pre-procedure probationary period, Greg had learned more about bond-severance than he knew there were things to learn. His favorite staff member was Simon, a young bonded Omega who led the classes. Simon was as kind as he was helpful and every time Greg asked a question or sought some clarification on something he didn't quite understand, Simon was happy to oblige. He had narrowly managed to escape being forcibly bonded without his consent during his first heat at age 17. Eight years later, he was happily bonded, well-educated, and gainfully employed, and he had vowed to do everything he could to help those who weren't as lucky as he was.

Through Simon's tutelage, he learned all about what he'd be going through over the next few weeks. The drug would be given intravenously, similar to chemotherapy, with some similar side-effects. It would take anywhere between three and five weeks for the bond to die, depending on numerous factors that affected the overall strength of the bond. He and Julia wouldn't be allowed to see, scent, or even hear each other once the procedure started. One it was over, the only way they'd be able to see each other would be if both of them forged a new bond with someone else. The risk of one or both of them succumbing to bond shock was otherwise too great.

And so it was that Greg arrived at the Lethe Clinic for his first day of treatment with a large duffel bag packed with all the clothes and other necessities he'd need for his weeks-long stay. Even knowing what was in store for him was not enough to prepare him for what he was about to go through.

At first, it wasn't so bad. But only at first.

Greg sat in the plush and comfortable armchair in the room he'd been assigned to live in during his stay in the Lethe Clinic. It was a rather luxurious room as medical stays went, consisting of a bed, a sofa long enough to lie on, the comfortable chair, a small wardrobe, a table, and a bathroom complete with its own tub and shower. A small flat-screen television was fixed to one of the walls, though it didn't receive normal channels. Instead, the patient could select certain pre-approved films or programs to watch; Greg noticed that none of them contained any violent or distressing content. He assumed the same would be true of the clinic's library service, though he hadn't even skimmed the listing of available books yet.

He knew why the clinic was so protective and careful of the entertainment it provided. It was the same reason why all meals were provided for, why there were no sharp objects in the room, why the sheets and duvet on the bed were made with such durable, difficult to tear material, why there was no window or glass of any kind, why the staff would check up on him so frequently once the treatment began.

Greg, like all bond-severance patients, was now under intense suicide watch.

He tried not to let it get to him as two staff members entered his room, pushing along an IV-cart with a small bag of clear liquid. His first treatment. He closed his eyes and tried to make his body relax into the chair even as he felt the prick of a needle as it slid into the soft skin on the inside of his elbow. The IV solution began its steady drip into his body, and he could feel a numbness begin to spread out from his arm. The staff explained that anesthetic and analgesic compounds were part of the solution and that these would dull the pain for a while. It was important to rest during these periods of respite as, unfortunately, they would be all too comparatively brief.

Ten minutes later, the bag was empty and the staff removed the IV and bandaged Greg's arm. He could feel them help him stand and guide him to the bed, but it felt distant and hazy. The world was blurry and his legs wobbled beneath him as if he were on a ship tossed violently by the sea. He collapsed onto the bed, and the world was swallowed up by oblivion as he lost consciousness.

His blood was boiling in his veins.

Greg awoke with a gasp, sweat covering his skin. He'd been clawing at his clothes in his sleep; even though his clothes were light and airy, they weighed heavily on and stung his skin as if they were made from heavy barbed wire. Combined with his heavy sweat, the clothes were damp and clung to him like a jealous lover.

His muscles burned and ached with every movement, yet he forced himself up. Stumbling and lurching the short distance to his bathroom felt like wandering for a week in a burning desert. His stomach seized and cramped ruthlessly, and he only just managed to make it to the toilet before hot and acidic bile rose in his throat.

He had no idea how long the worst of the pain and nausea wracked his shaking and burning body. Finally, it began to ease off, leaving behind a dull ache in every cell of his body. His head pounded with a splitting headache as he slid down to lie down, not caring that he was still in the bathroom. The cool linoleum tiles felt nice against his sweaty skin.

Blearily, he glanced at his right wrist. The bondbite had become a slightly duller and lighter shade of red than it had been before. That was one treatment down. He'd have two more that day for a total of three every day until his bond died entirely. As his eyes slid shut out of exhaustion, he could only wish that his body would eventually adjust to the onslaught and later treatments wouldn't affect him so terribly.

That wish was never granted.

* * *

Three weeks after he was first admitted to the clinic, Greg's bond died.

Too weak to hold up his own arm, the staff had done that for him as they inspected his fading bondbite thoroughly. "Just one more, Greg," they'd said as they prepped him for his treatment. They were right.

He watched it happen. He awoke from the anesthetic, surprised that the pain and nausea weren't as severe as normal. That changed when a sudden sharp spike of pain ripped through him, more acute and intense than he'd ever felt during the process. A harsh and scratchy scream tore from his throat as he arched his back in reaction to the pain. His eyes wanted to clamp tightly shut, but he forced them to remain open. Gritting his teeth until he heard the terrible grating sound in the back of his skull, he lifted his right hand stared at the bondbite. In three weeks, it had gone from bright red to a pink so pale it was scarcely there. And then, before his eyes, he watched that last little drop of pink fade to a ghostly shade of white.

It was over.

Like a fever breaking, the pain abruptly dissipated, leaving Greg somewhat disoriented by its sudden absence. That link to Julia was dead, gone forever; surely the same had happened to her, and the little trace of Greg she carried around on her neck was no more. He found himself making little gasping sounds, unsure if they were sobs or laughter.

God, he never wanted to go through this again. Could he find it in himself to seek a second bond after all that? Would it be worth it, knowing this was how _that_ might end, too?

That is what was on his mind when his exhausted body lost consciousness again, leaving him to the restless and eerie dreams he would not remember in the morning.

* * *

The week following the severance was dedicated to rest and recuperation, and once it was over Greg would be released back to the world. At this point, the staff told him two things. One, he wouldn't have to worry about running into Julia and risking bond shock. The Alpha she planned to bond with was going to take her to his family home in Aberdeen for her to regain her strength. They'd be bonded well before returning to London. It was good that she'd have someone to look out for her while she recovered.

The other bit of news was that, now that he was slowly healing from the severance, he could have visitors, as long as they weren't an unbonded Omega. The first week after the severance was dangerous due to multiple factors, one of which was that a small percentage of individuals were at risk of being triggered into an extremely painful, imbalanced heat (if they were Omegas) or rut (if they were Alphas) when exposed to an unbonded member of the opposite gender. That risk decreased exponentially after the first week post-severance.

Greg's first visitor came four days into his recuperation week. He'd gone through most of his entertainment options already, so he was stuck watching an incredibly boring program about gardening. He was just about to fall asleep thanks to the phenomenal sleep aid that was the narrator's droning voice when a knock came at his door. He switched off the television and called out for whoever it was to enter.

His eyes widened in surprise when John Watson entered. A look of mixed sadness and shock briefly washed over the doctor's features when he took in Greg's appearance, but he quickly covered it up.

"John!" he croaked. "You shouldn't be here. Didn't any of the staff tell you I can't have unbonded Omega visitors?"

John grinned a little and, assuming Greg's exhausted mind wasn't playing tricks on him, there was a bit of a flush to his cheeks. "They probably would have said something," he said, turning his neck so Greg could get a good look at his new bondbite. "If they saw any unbonded Omegas."

At first Greg's expression was beyond baffled, but slowly that drained away, leaving behind a weak and tired but wholly genuine smile in its wake. "About time."

"That's what everyone else has been saying." He shrugged. "The ones that aren't extra insistent I don't forget to take my birth control, anyway."

"How long?"

"Two days since the end of it. My scent's still reformatting, but a short visit should be okay. I would've come to see you sooner, but you know… with the heat and all."

"It's fine," Greg said. He gave John a wry look. "Sherlock didn't wanna visit, huh? Typical."

To Greg's surprise, John gave a slightly embarrassed giggle. "Well, er, no – it's not that for once," he said. "It's more like he _can't_. He's still a bit wiped out from the heat. I might've made him pull a groin muscle."

"You're joking!"

"Dead serious," John said. His laugh was now strong and full-bodied. "Keep in mind, he's never had sex before, let alone shared a heat with anyone. That and even though I've finally forgiven him for what happened almost three years ago, there are still a lot of raw feelings we're going to need to work through. I guess those raw feelings can manifest as being a bit wild in bed once the primal bonding animal brain thing takes over."

Greg laughed, though it was a small and tired sound. "What was that Army nickname you said you had? Three Continents? I see where that came from."

John smiled, but didn't immediately reply. Instead, he walked to the bed and sat at its foot. "Yeah, but I didn't come here to talk about my sexual escapades, past or present. I wanted to see how you're doing." His smile fell and his brows furrowed in concern. "No offense, but you look like shit."

"Feel like it too," Greg said. "If you think this is bad, you should've seen me a few days ago. This is a step up."

He had to have lost at least a stone in weight; since he didn't have much body fat to begin with, it had to have come out of his muscle density. He knew there had to be dark, puffy bags beneath his eyes thanks to all the sleeplessness. His skin was probably pale and clammy, his hair probably lifeless and grayer than it had ever been. This was all conjecture, however. He hadn't actually seen his own reflection in nearly a month, due to the fact that there were no mirrors in his room or its bathroom. The reflective glass would have been too tempting for any destabilized patient with a particular goal in mind.

John chewed on his lower lip. "Are you… are you going to be okay?"

The question with no good answer.

"Sure," Greg murmured.

That didn't seem to reassure John any. "Once you're out of here, if you need something… anything, or if you're having a really rough day, you can always call on us," he said. He laced his fingers together and pressed his joined hands to his lips in contemplation for a moment. Finally, he cleared his throat and found his voice again. "Sherlock might not always – or even often – act it, but you _were_ one of the people he jumped for, you know."

Greg allowed that to sink in. "Thank you, John," Greg said. "Really. That means a lot."

"Just keep it in mind, okay? Still, sorry to make it such a short visit, but I really should get back." He stood, flexing his hands at his sides as if unsure what to do with them. Suddenly, his face lit up with recollection and he walked over to stand by Greg. "Oh, there was one more thing. Mycroft sends his regards. As much as he seems to enjoy enforcing rules on others while conveniently managing to circumvent them himself, I don't think he'd break the ban on unbonded visitors here."

Greg gave a soft huff. "Unless he turns up like you, with a new bondbite on his neck."

John chuckled. "Oh, I don't think you have to worry about that." He winked and gave Greg's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Get some rest and get better, mate."

Greg nodded, allowing his eyes to slide shut once John left. He rolled onto his side and only had a few seconds to wonder about the meaning behind John's wink before he was swallowed up by sleep.

* * *

One of the problems with bond-severance was that, given how controversial the practice was, there were hardly any workplaces that considered it acceptable grounds for medical leave. Greg had needed to use up nearly all of his vacation and personal time just to have the procedure done, leaving him little time for any post-clinic aftercare. The week-long recuperation in the clinic was really meant to be supplemented by more personal recovery time, but that wasn't a luxury Greg had.

Moreover, it wasn't something he particularly _wanted_. Part of him knew it probably wasn't wise or healthy to return to work so quickly and throw himself into stressful cases. But at least it meant less time lying in bed in his tiny flat, knowing that he was now truly, officially alone. Taking on a lot of difficult work kept those thoughts at bay. They still came to him in the night, washing over him like a cold wave as he tried to sleep, but when that happened, he'd flip on his bedside light and grab for a file to look through. In the two weeks since he'd been released from the clinic, he could probably count the number of his full, sleep-filled nights on one hand.

He was losing what little healing he'd done during his last week at the clinic.

On the fifteenth day after his departure from the clinic, Greg felt particularly miserable. He'd only had about three hours of sleep the night before, and he'd felt hazy and distracted all day. He'd managed to fake functionality enough to convince his dubious coworkers, but he had only narrowly managed it.

His whole body felt heavy as he trudged back to the flat. He was about five minutes away when he felt a sudden sharp stab of pain in his head as he moved through the rush hour crowds. Their voices and other ambient sounds of the city warped, becoming simultaneously muffled and deafening. He winced, rubbing at his temple as he felt another stab of pain. He managed to break away from the crowds, ambling down a narrow and empty alleyway in an attempt to gain peace from the terrible sounds.

Another throb and he staggered, managing to catch himself against the cool brick wall of the back of a building. He stood there a moment, rubbing his eyes and leaning against the wall. When he pushed away from it to begin moving again, light burst around the corners of his vision as he felt his body give way to unconsciousness.

He didn't feel himself hit the ground.

* * *

He awoke slowly, in stages of sense. First, taste: a dull coppery flavor. There was a small ache on his tongue; he'd probably bitten it. Second, touch: the sensation of silky sheets instead of hard cobblestone or his own rough and starchy sheets. Third, sound: quiet classical music Greg could never hope to place since all but the most universally famous pieces sounded the same to him. Also, there was the soft rustle of pen against paper. Fourth, smell: a rich and heady scent with a base that evoked a feeling of crisp coolness and notes of an alluring but secret sweetness. Familiar. Omega.

_Mycroft._

His eyes flew open wide. Fifth, sight.

"Ah," Mycroft said. "I see you are once again with us in the waking world."

Greg's eyes darted about the room, taking in the posh décor. They finally settled on Mycroft, who was sitting at a fine antique desk carved from oak. He was writing something by lamplight, a cup of tea at his side.

"Where am I?" Greg asked. His voice was rough from disuse.

"My humble abode," Mycroft answered. "You've been asleep for nearly seventeen hours. Making up for lost time, I imagine."

Greg groaned and began moving his tired, aching muscles to sit up. "I'm late for work."

Mycroft stood and walked over to the bed, where he placed a well-manicured hand on Greg's chest and pushed him to lie back down. "No, you are not," he said. "I saw to it that Scotland Yard was informed that you were rushed to an A&E and diagnosed with severe pneumonia. They have an official, signed doctor's note informing them that you'll need at least a week of paid medical leave to recover."

Furrowing his brow in confusion, Greg said, "But I don't have pneumonia."

Mycroft smirked. "No, you don't." The clever trickiness faded from his expression, leaving behind his normal aloof mask. Even with it in place, however, Greg thought he saw concern in Mycroft's eyes. "You are, however, under-rested, under-nourished, and altogether far too stressed. Even if bond-severance procedures were granted the paid medical leave they deserve, I suspect you would have pushed yourself to illness as you have now."

"I can look after myself."

"Clearly you can't. Or, more accurately, won't."

"So you will?"

Mycroft tilted his chin up. "Yes. In fact, I insist upon it," he said. "You forget I have tended a certain hard-headed Alpha who is prone to pushing himself to the point of collapse since literally the moment of his birth."

Greg stared at Mycroft for a few long seconds before he closed his eyes and let himself finally relax into the pile of soft pillows he was propped against. He rubbed a tired hand over the rough stubble of his face, suddenly realizing he couldn't remember the last time he shaved. "I really have been acting like Sherlock when he's self-destructive, haven't I?"

Mycroft gave an agreeing hum as he sat on the bed. "It's a wholly unflattering look on you."

"How'd you find me?" Greg asked. "Last I remember, I was sick and staggering down a random alley."

"'Find' implies that there was a search involved," Mycroft said. "I knew where you were. I merely had you collected."

Before Greg could ask for clarification on that, Mycroft leaned closer. "I'm going to check you for fever," he explained. "Your stress compromised your immune system, and your temperature was a bit high when you were brought here."

The back of Mycroft's hand felt cool as it pressed against Greg's forehead. Greg tried to force his heart to keep a regular, non-frenzied rhythm, but it was proving futile. With every breath, he took in more of Mycroft's unique scent. It washed over him, inviting and refreshing, and he didn't realize he was subconsciously moving closer to the source of it at Mycroft's neck until his face was mere inches from Mycroft's.

"Gregory?" Mycroft murmured.

Greg closed the distance .His dry, chapped lips met Mycroft's as if they could absorb moisture through osmosis. The kiss was slow and mostly chaste, though Greg found himself catching hints of Mycroft's taste that was awakening a hunger in his core that Greg hadn't felt in ages. As soon as he felt that gnaw of carnal hunger, the reality of the situation came crashing down on Greg and he abruptly broke the kiss.

"Sorry," he breathed, lips still close to Mycroft's. "Jesus, sorry, I'm sorry. That wasn't… it wasn't appropriate. I-I go and do that without any warning and just –it's every nasty Alpha stereotype, and _God_, I'm sorr-"

This time Mycroft closed the distance.

- _(Present)_ -

It was with no small amount of déjà vu that Greg found himself slowly coming awake in Mycroft's bed. The scent, feel, sound, and other sensations of the room were much more familiar now that he'd spent considerably more time in that bed since he first awoke in it nearly a year ago. Once again, Mycroft was working at his desk when Greg finally opened his eyes.

"How long was I out?" he rasped.

"Three hours," Mycroft replied. He set his pen down and turned his attention to Greg. "You thrashed terribly during part of it."

"I was remembering… everything. About the severance," Greg said. He rubbed at his eyes and sighed. "Like I was going through it all over again."

"A reaction to hearing about what happened to those girls. Out of everyone on the case, you are in the unique and unenviable position of being most intimately familiar with what they went through."

"Did you have me 'collected' from St. Bart's and brought here this time too?"

Mycroft's lips quirked up in a little smile. "I see not all the memories you relived were unpleasant ones," he said. "But no. My brother and John brought you here."

"Let me guess. Sherlock told you to tell me that he's deducting points from my total for fainting on the job."

"He never mentioned it."

"Hmph. It'll be a miracle if he keeps it that way. Did they say if I need to head back to St. Bart's?"

"No. Your investigation now has all the information that can be gleaned from the corpses. You know who was killed and how. The next step is to find out why and by whom."

"We might be getting close there," Greg said. "According to the parents, Zahra was into Omega rights activism. Apparently she was active and visible enough to be the subject of vandalism and slurs. Then there's that card Sherlock found at the crime scene. There could be a whole group looking to pick off people who don't fit in with their ideals."

"I'm pleased you brought that up," Mycroft said. He picked up a folder from his desk and walked over to the bed, where he sat by Greg, who was pulling himself up to sit against the pillows and headboard. He handed Greg the folder. "Meet Graham Lestrange."

Expecting the profile of a suspect, Greg was surprised when he opened the file and saw his own face. Suddenly, recollection clicked into place. "This is the fake identity you mentioned a while back."

"Yes, the one my subordinates have been coyly mentioning and passing around with known adherents to dynamic traditionalism. It's an overly-long, circuitous courtship, but they've begun to get some nibbles of interest. I'll go further on that in a moment." Mycroft sat by Greg's side and pointed to certain parts of the ID. "You will notice that many of the details are identical to your own: age, date of birth, blood type, and even the name sounds similar to your own. It will be easier for you to stick to and remember the differences in your character if many of the essential building blocks are the same. Lestrange is widowed and we shall cook up an inane story about how being modern and independent directly led to the Omega's death, which should have all heads nodding in ego-stroking agreement buried beneath a thin veneer of grim sympathy."

"You said Sherlock and I would be going into this together. What's his identity?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "My brother, as always, has a flair for the impractically dramatic. It's the second set of clipped papers after Lestrange's profile."

Greg put aside Lestrange's information and flipped to whatever Sherlock had come up with for the investigation. As he sputtered in surprise at what he saw, he was briefly thankful that he wasn't drinking anything, as he would have sprayed it everywhere in surprise. "He's _ginger!_"

Someone only vaguely familiar with Sherlock's appearance would likely never recognize that it was the detective in that picture. His skin tone and face shape were unaltered, but that was the extent of it. His hair was a light orange-blond and the curls had been tamed down. Contacts turned his unusual gray eyes to a more stable blue. While still trying to process the change in appearance, Greg glanced down at the name: Hólmgeir Sigerson.

"Christ, that's not a name. It's a bad Scrabble hand."

"My brother will be playing an influential Norwegian businessman, meaning he will need to speak in a thick, flawless accent at all times. He's informed me that he has begun learning the language, and I have no doubt that his dedication will ensure he is fluent as soon as possible." Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "So much effort for something he will delete as soon as he feels it is no longer necessary."

"Nothing about this profile reflects Sherlock's real life at all, aside from the bit about being bonded with an expecting Omega," Greg said.

"He does so love to work from scratch with this sort of thing. Provides more of a challenge."

"Hm." Greg continued skimming the profile. "You mentioned something about getting a nibble of interest from these?"

"Such an operation as this requires delicacy. They must know that you – or rather, your characters – have heard things which have piqued their interest. But to come right out with self-introductions would be too forward, a breach of social conduct and an unbecoming quality in a prospective member of such a secret society. No, they must have heard about your characters as well, snatches of information passed along over glasses of wine in private studies. _They_ must be the ones to offer an invitation."

Greg tidied the papers up and placed them back in the file. "And you think that invitation is coming?"

Mycroft smiled. "My sources are cautiously optimistic."

The invitations would arrive three and a half weeks later, and what literal invitations they were. One addressed to Graham Lestrange and another addressed to Hólmgeir Sigerson, both sent to the two PO boxes which had been coopted for the investigation. They came in fine, expensive envelopes with scarlet borders and a seal of dark red wax on the back. The symbol in the seal was the same as the one on the card at the crime scene.

There was going to be a party for polite, cultured, possibly murderous bigots.

* * *

**Author Notes:** 1) The Lethe Clinic's name comes from Greek Mythology. It's one of the rivers of the Underworld. The souls of the dead were required to drink its water, which destroyed all memories of one's earthly life, in order for reincarnation to happen.

2) Just couldn't resist the Norwegian named Sigerson angle. 3) I'm sorry the mixing of past events and present action might be a touch confusing. I didn't want to push the bit at the end of the flashback to another chapter because I felt it might be even sloppier. At least it's thematically in place here.

In the next chapter, secret societies are infiltrated and the case takes another dark turn. As always, thanks for reading! Reviews and crit are what keep me chugging along, so I'm always appreciative of them!


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